BATMAN - GOTHAM CITY'S DARK KNIGHT
by MaskedAwesome
Summary: Gotham City is one of the world's greatest cities, as well as a cesspool breeding crime, filth, and extreme urban decay beneath the surface. As a boy, Bruce Wayne, one of Gotham's wealthiest multi-billionaires, was profoundly impacted by the growing chaos in Gotham and has devoted his life since to trying to bring it back from the brink of darkness.
1. Chapter 1: Childhood's End

"Catch me if you can," the voice of Tommy Elliot carried through the garden. Excited, the young Bruce Wayne ran, frantically searching for his friend. Flowers and various species of foliage flew by his face as he weaved between the aisles of plants.

Bruce had always liked the garden. Over the past few years it had easily become his favorite place to play in the vast estate where he lived. It had plants that had been procured from nurseries all over the world, and Mrs. Cooper always did a fine job at keeping them as healthy as possible in Gotham's oceanic climate.

Breathing heavily, Bruce came to halt, placing his hands on his hips and looking up at the sky. Brushing his jet-black hair away from his blue eyes, he took note of how warm the windless air was today. He was glad to be able to play outside today. It was a record breaking April as far as rainfall had been concerned, with today being the first stormless day in almost a week and half. The clouds held almost motionless in the grey sky above. The skies were nearly always grey in Gotham. At least, it seemed that way. Gotham had a reputation of being dark and damp year round, with the exception of the summer months. Being located along the Eastern Seaboard that was so be somewhat excepted, but for whatever reason weather patterns all seemed to converge right over Gotham causing for a much cooler climate than could be found in any of the other major East Coast cities.

"You giving up?" Tommy shouted from somewhere in the distance. Grinning, Bruce resumed the chase. Tommy Elliot had been his best friend for the majority of both of their young lives. In fact, the Elliots were friends to the entire Wayne family and had been for some time. Both of the boy's mothers had been pregnant at the same time, and being neighbors both got to experience childbirth and the excitement of being new parents all at the same time together.

Coming to the greenhouse, Bruce opened the door and called in, "Tommy?" There was no vocal replay but Bruce noticed the sound of shuffling feet inside and, pursing his lips, ventured in.

For as lush and well kept as the gardens were, Mrs Cooper did not keep the greenhouse in very good condition. She didn't favor the more tropical plants, and as such a menagerie of tangled vines and gnarled branches reigned within the structure which was perhaps more often appreciated as a storage shed for the gardening tools. Rakes, shovels and trowels lined the walls, with pots, hoses and various bags of fertilizers sprawled over tables and workbenches.

Bruce stopped and strained his ears, listening for any sign of his friend and breathing in the humid air. Then he saw, under a wooden table to the left, a bright sneakers of Tommy Elliot.

"Can I see?" Bruce asked as he leaned over and looked his friend in eyes. Tommy grinned, wiping his sweaty red hair away from his forehead.

"Finders keepers, and _I_ found it," Tommy taunted.

"In _my_ garden," Bruce quipped. Though he liked him, Bruce had always felt the need to come up with reasons and feigned logic in order to outsmart Tommy. Tommy was smug and arrogant, always fancying that he knew everything. The two usually played board games involving strategy where Tommy could gloat about his intellect, and if they weren't doing that then they were playing imaginary games in Tommy would dictate make-believe scenarios for Bruce to deal with. But today had been different. Today they had opted to play in the garden. It was the only somewhat decent weather they'd had in days, and thus the morning had been spent taking full advantage of that.

"I'm serious, let me see," Bruce said. Tommy stretched out a fist and unclenched his fingers, revealing an old Native American arrowhead resting on his palm. Native Americans had inhabited the Gotham regional area for several thousand years prior to its first permanent European settlers. In fact, Bruce's father had told him that the explorer, Jeremy Coe, had reported Indian Camps in droves in what was now known as the Gotham Heights area only three hundred years previously. And while Bruce's dad had always told stories of finding old pieces of pottery and other artifacts on the grounds of the manor when he was a boy, Bruce had never found anything of the like until today.

"Pretty cool, huh?" Tommy said. Never taking his eyes off of the object in Tommy's hand, Bruce struck his hand out as quickly as possible and snatched it up for himself. Before his red-haired friend could entirely register what had happened Bruce was running out of the greenhouse, arrowhead in hand.

"Finders keepers!" he giggled back as the reentered the garden area. Hearing Tommy closing in behind him, he frantically looked for a place to hide. And then he saw a tree off to the right, running up against an old well, which had been boarded up years before Bruce was even born. If he could just climb up into the tree before Tommy got close, then surely he'd be able to hide up there. He ran over to the base of the trunk, and seeing it was too tall, he resolved that he should climb on top of the well to give himself a boost.

He carefully tucked the arrowhead into his pocket and climbed up onto the boards covering the old well's opening. Bending his knees, Bruce crouched down and then jumped up, desperately reaching above his head for the nearest branch. But he missed.

"Bruce!" Tommy called as he got nearer. Bruce bent down and sprung up again. This time his fingers just barely grazed the lowest branch. Tommy suddenly appeared around the nearest shrubbery and Bruce made one final desperate leap. His palm hit the branch, and his fingers quickly tightened around it. A smile burst across his face as he found himself hanging above the old well from the branch. He had made it.

But suddenly Bruce found his stomach forcing its way up into his chest. The world around him went flying up into the air. The branch had snapped, and before Bruce had even realized he was falling his body slammed hard against the wooden boards below. Pain surged along his back and then scraping along his sides and the boards gave way and he scratched along past their splintered ends. Darkness swallowed him as he tumbled down to the bottom of the well.

"Bruce?" Tommy shouted, peering down into the well, but it was too dark to see his friend anywhere down in the depths. Quickly as he could, he ran back through the garden toward the massive mansion calling out for help.

The stone surface had slapped the breath from Bruce's body as his fall ended. Groaning, and barely able to move, he gazed up at the tiny hole of light from the opening above. It was damp and still down in the hole. He could barely see, or even bring himself to cry out. It was almost soundless, except for a slow and steady dripping and a distant whisper of air.

Straining his eyes he turned his head and noticed that the well opened up into a tunnel to the right of his body. Barely able to make out the silhouettes of shapes, it appeared as if the tree's roots had grown into the side of the well and ripped it apart, giving way to a tunnel leading to a much larger cavern in the distance. Maybe he could lift himself up and crawl down the tunnel, but he feared he wouldn't be able to see.

The distant whisper suddenly changed. It had transformed into something else. Something that stirred in the darkness. It grew from a whisper into a shuffle and a hiss. And it chittered. And then, as suddenly as the branch had snapped before the fall, the darkness exploded from out of the tunnel. They boiled from the darkness, flapping, beating, gnawing, and clawing. It was a nightmare of leathery wings and gleaming eyes and fangs. Bats surrounded him, choking the air and leaving Bruce petrified with fear. Bruce shrieked, half out of terror, but mostly out of despair. He had never felt this pure panic surge through his veins like this ever before in his life. He had been scared, of course, as most children had. But this was something entirely different. This was the gut-wrenching panic that comes from an extreme fear that few people ever truly feel. But here he was, a boy at the age of eight years old, squeezing his eyes shut and willing himself to be anywhere away from here.

That time in the darkness felt eternal. The bats had moved on, but for how long Bruce had no idea. In fact, he hadn't ever really noticed when they had left, too consumed in his panic. But though they were gone, the helplessness and loss Bruce felt had not. Too scared to move and barely breathing so as to stay as quiet as possible, he wondered if he would ever be free. Dried tears had caked grime and filth onto his face, his clothes were soaked from the mud, and the cold air seemed to have pierced through his body and clamped onto his bones. Bruce wasn't even sure if he was still alive, unable to see the light filtering in from above anymore. As a weighted lump seemed to form in his heart, he wondered if he had fallen into Hell.

And then, suddenly, a beam of light stretched through the inky blackness and engulfed him. Reaching up to shade his eyes, Bruce saw his father, Thomas Wayne, floating down towards him, flashlight in hand. A rope was harnessed around his body, and though Bruce knew he was being rescued, he did not feel safe.

"Bruce. It's okay," Thomas whispered as he reached down and clasped hands with his son. "Don't be afraid, it's okay. You'll be ok."

Thomas carried Bruce up the stairs to the door of Wayne Manor. The house had been in their family for a long time. In fact, the Wayne's had been in Gotham nearly since it was first settled. And in the generations that followed they had made themselves rather prominent members of its society.

Wayne Enterprises was the massive corporate conglomerate that the Wayne family had run from within the heart of the city that granted them their vast multi-billion-dollar fortune. But fortune had not caused the Wayne's to be decedent. In fact, so determined to be industrious and help benefit the world around him, Thomas usually didn't even run his company himself. He left it up to men much more interested in the corporate world than himself. Instead Thomas had gone to medical school and worked as an accomplished surgeon. He and his wife Martha were both well known philanthropists, often spearheading numerous charity events. They were Gotham's favored family.

"Will you be needing my assistance Master Wayne?" Alfred, the Wayne's butler asked as they ascended the stairs.

"No, it looks like just some bruising and maybe a sprained ankle," Thomas replied. "But it could have definitely been worse."

"Very good sir," Alfred nodded. Alfred Pennyworth was a good man. Born and raised in Britain, in his younger days he attended numerous prestigious academies and eventually entered training to be a military man. He trained specifically in combat medicine, however, his training lead him to take up various jobs as bodyguards, which eventually turned into simple valet work by the time he was hired by the Wayne's. He and Thomas had hit it off extremely well and he quickly found himself promoted from valet to head butler at Wayne Manor, growing extremely close to the entire family.

Waiting near the doors to the vast mansion stood Tommy Elliot and his father. Tommy looked ashamed, guilty, and worried, while his father stood somewhere between embarrassed and entirely lived.

"I'm very sorry Thomas," Mr. Elliot sputtered at Bruce's father. "I've told Tommy a hundred times-"

"Don't worry, it's alright," Thomas replied kindly. As they passed, Bruce reached out and slipped the arrowhead into his friend's hands. It wasn't worth taking.

"Took quite a fall, didn't we Master Bruce?" Alfred smiled at the boy as they entered the grand entrance hall.

"And why do we fall Bruce?" His father said comfortingly. "We fall so we can learn to pick ourselves up." Bruce had heard this saying from his father numerous times in his life, but somehow today he wondered how it could possibly apply. He had been petrified down in the well. How could he pick himself up?

"Honey!" Bruce's mother called as she ran over to meet her husband and son.

"It's just a little fall Martha, nothing serious." Thomas assured her.

"Does anything hurt?" She asked, kissing him on the forehead.

"Just a little sprain, some scrapes, and some bruises right Bruce?" Thomas said winking. "Lets get you up to your room for now."

As Bruce was laid in his bed, he was glad to back in the arms of his parents, in his nice comfortable home. It was good to be out of the cold and be bathed in the lights of Wayne Manor. But he did not feel safe. As the sun slipped behind the clouds, and the sky began to dim, the shadows seemed to be reaching for him, and there was no warmth or comfort in his heart. The chittering of the bats echoed in his head. Their eyes watching him blankly, and he could not escape.

"Bruce," the calm whisper of his father rang out in the darkness as a hand gripped the boy on the shoulder. "Bruce are you alright?"

Bruce opened his eyes. He was tangled in the soft down blankets of his bed, with sweat running down his forehead. Had he just been screaming? He couldn't remember. All he could remember were the bats surrounding him, and lunging at him. The way they moved and twisted through the air. Their shrieks and hissing. He had been having a nightmare. Pain was pulsating from his heel up through his leg from the sprained ankle which he had obviously just agitated as he thrashed in his sleep. He was terrified, but he did not think he could admit it to his father. After all, he was eight years old. Eight year olds didn't need their parents to come in and comfort them when they had nightmares. He didn't even think eight year olds had nightmares at all. What would his father think? Bruce stared up searchingly at his dad, as his mother entered the door behind him and looked down with a worried but loving smile.

"The bats again?" Thomas asked. Bruce nodded. "You know why they attacked you, don't you? They were afraid of _you_."

"Afraid of me?" The thought seemed preposterous to Bruce.

"Of course they were. They were just sleeping in their cave when in dropped this boy who's so much bigger than any of them. To them you're a giant! They were scared. All creatures feel fear."

"Even the scary ones I guess." Bruce said, the faint outline of a smile appearing on his face as he imagined those horrible little shadow-like creatures being frightened of him.

"Especially the scary ones!" Thomas chucked back. Martha moved closer to the bed and sat herself down on the edge.

"Mom, what was that place?" Bruce asked.

"Just some old cave honey. Your father says those caves run all over underneath the grounds. In the civil war your great-great-grandfather was involved in the underground railroad, and probably used them to help people. You remember what that is?" Bruce nodded, remembering what he had learned about good people who helped free slaves by sneaking them into the northern states during the war. To think that a place, which was used to help people, had been so scary for him was a bit bewildering, but then again, so was the thought that the bats had been frightened of him.

"Are you still feeling frightened?" Thomas asked.

"No," Bruce said quietly.

"Do you need us to stay with you for a while?" Martha asked.

"I think I'll be alright."

"Good," she said as she placed her hand on his head. "But if you need us Bruce, you know where we are. You never need to be afraid, Bruce. We're always here for you when you get scared. And you're here for us too. We are all going to be here for each other for when times get scary."

"Even Alfred," Thomas chimed in as he placed his arm around his wife, "He's just been boarding up that hole you fell into right now. So you don't have to worry about it anymore. We're always here for you, Bruce." And for the first time since he fell into the hole, Bruce did feel better. At least, he felt better inside the house. Outside, in the cold wet night, he knew the bats were still out there.

* * *

June 26th. It had been two months since Bruce had fallen into the caves with the bats. His schooling at the Gotham Heights academy had been out for a few weeks, which meant it was time for the usual summer outings as a family in the Wayne family.

"Sit down Bruce," Martha told her squirming son. As the train jolted to a slow start Bruce pulled his face away from the window and took his seat across from his parents. It was an exciting time for Bruce, as his parents rarely ever brought him into the interior of the city. In fact, he could only remember traveling downtown on a very rare few occasions, either to the zoo or museum and so on.

Wayne Manor where Bruce's family lived was located on the outskirts of Gotham City in a neighborhood of Gotham Heights known as The Palisades. Gotham Heights was located on am outcropping of hills which bordered the western perimeter of Gotham City's limits. From the mansion they could see the sprawling megalopolis clinging to the ocean in the distance, but for the most part they didn't often travel there as a family all together. Bruce had always been content exploring the grounds at Wayne Manor or visiting the parks and ice cream parlor which were in the more immediate neighborhood. They only ever took him downtown on special occasions, and today was a special occasion. Or rather, it was a special occasion for his parents. Tonight was not the sort of night Bruce would have likely chosen for himself.

The Grande Monarch Theatre, one of the oldest theaters in Gotham City, was performing a limited engagement of Arrigo Boito's _Mefistofele. _When Bruce had complained about going, his mother had explained to him that the tickets had come to them through a good friend and it would be rude not to accept them. His father had told him that the opera had only been performed on extremely rare occasions, and in fact had only been put on twice in its original run, so this was an opportunity that should be taken advantage of. Earlier that month Bruce's friend Tommy had visited Amusement Mile, a massive carnival-like theme park along the water front and seen a back to back showing of both the 1920 _The Mark of Zorro _and it's 1940 remake. Of course Tommy had told Bruce all about it, and when he had suggested it to his parents they had told him they would take him the following month, because this month they had received the tickets to the opera.

Alfred had driven them to the train station, and Bruce had been upset for the duration of the ride. Opera sounded boring to him, and he did not enjoy wearing the suit and bowtie his parents had made him wear. He was nowhere near as comfortable in that outfit as his father appeared. And his mother looked absolutely pleased to be in her dress, wearing a brand new string of pearls around her neck that Thomas had given her just moments before they left the manor. Bruce wondered if someday he would have to buy jewelry for a girl, worrying that he would not be any good at deciding such things.

The buildings flew by out the windows of the train, and Bruce's grumpy mood earlier was lightening. The massive skyscrapers and sculptures that lines the streets of Gotham were a sight that people from all over the world would travel great distances to see, but the awe they inspired was not lost on the young Bruce. He enjoyed the train too. It wasn't vastly different from riding in a car, but something about being on a train was fun. Perhaps it was the tracks elevated so high above the streets, or maybe it was the tunnels and moments it would squeeze between buildings and so on. Whatever it was, there was something special about seeing Gotham from the train system.

"Dad," Bruce asked. "You're company built this train, right?"

"That is correct," Thomas smiled.

"Why did you want to build this train Dad?"

"Well, Gotham has been good to our family… but some people here have been suffering. People less fortunate than us have been enduring some very hard times. So… we decided to build a new, cheap, public transportation system to help them out."

Bruce didn't entirely understand the economic circumstances in Gotham, but he had heard about it plenty of times. Most people referred to it as "The Depression." Apparently this sort of thing had happened in the past to other cities, where companies who provided a lot of jobs experiences extreme economic downturns or went out of business entirely. People would move out of the city and eventually the city itself would be nearly a ghost town. The same thing had happened in Seattle during the late 1960's and early 70's during an oil crisis. Gotham was going through similarly hard times. While the extremely wealthy, like the Waynes, were barely touched by these problems, the lower class found itself plunging even lower. Crime and sickness was a rampant issue in the inner city, which was in large part a reason that Thomas and Martha did not often take their son into the city. But they did their part to try and fix things. Both of them worked extremely hard on various charity projects and Thomas had expertly navigated his company through the crisis so that it would be able to provide as much stimulation to the economy and help as many people as possible.

Gotham was interest city, architecturally. It was a layered city. There were streets elevated over streets, and streets that ran under the ground. Entire city blocks and shopping districts were sometimes located on subterranean levels of the city. On ground level the buildings were mostly all old, brick, and elegant in their build. Beautiful sculptures erected from marble and even steel could be found around every corner. They were edifices of the past haunting the present. As one moved up higher on the skyline the buildings would often get more modern in many places. There were several examples even of newer buildings being built on top of older ones, with updated structural foundations added to accommodate the changes. It was truly the one of the only cities of its kind in the entire world.

When they arrived at the nearest station to the theater, the Wayne's disembarked and walked a few blocks to the Grande Monarch Theatre. It had been built very early in Gotham's history, and was originally intended to be exclusively an opera house. But in more recent years it had lent itself to various other events, converting sometimes into a stage for dramatic plays, a movie theater, or even a symphony hall. Red velvet chairs with golden accents filled the theater, and enormous elaborate tapestries lined the walls- originals from the days when it was originally built. They took their seats and waited patiently until the lights dimmed and the stage lit up. The curtains raised on the main stage and the opera began.

A heavenly chorus sang out and praised the Almighty God for his power and goodness, only to be met by Mefistofele, the Devil, who scornfully declared that he can win the soul of a man, the elderly Dr. Faust. His challenge is accepted by the Forces of Good, and their struggle over Faust's soul began. The aged Dr. Faust and his pupil, Wagner, were watching Easter celebrations in the main square of their town, celebrating the anniversary of the resurrection of Christ. Faust noticed that a mysterious friar, about whom he sensed something evil, was following them. Wagner dismissed his master's feelings of unease and as darkness fell they returned to Faust's home. Faust, in his study, was deep in contemplation. His thoughts were disturbed in dramatic fashion by the sudden appearance of the sinister friar, whom he now recognized as a manifestation of the Devil, Mefistofele. Far from being terrified, Faust was intrigued and engaged in a discussion with Mefistofele which culminated in an agreement by which he would give his soul to the Devil on his death in return for worldly bliss for the remainder of his life. With the deal in motion and restored to his youth, Faust infatuated Margareta, an unsophisticated village girl. She was unable to resist his seductive charms and agreed to drug her mother with a sleeping draught and meet him for a night of passion. Meanwhile Mefistofele amused himself with Martha, another of the village girls. As Faust engaged in more and more activities with the Devil, they became further and further devilish until Mefistofele carried Faust away to witness a Witches' Sabbath on the Brocken Mountain.

Bruce watched as the Devil mounted his throne and proclaimed his contempt for the World and all its worthless inhabitants. The witches and goblins gathered and began to dance and twist around on stage. The music built upon itself and Bruce found himself more and more engaged. And suddenly, out of the caves and crevices of the set of the Brocken Mountain came a great number of performers dressed as gigantic and horrible bats. Bruce's heart beat faster as he watched them twirl and spin on the stage, reaching up towards Mefistofele with grasping clawed hands. And as he watched, and sweat ran down his forehead, it was as if he could see the bats from the cave before his very eyes. He could hear their chittering and hissing, and feel their leather wings brushing over him as he sat in panic. His stomach churned and ached. They were surrounding him, swarming over his body, and desperately he looked for a way out.

Thomas glanced down and saw his son's face drenched in sweat with skin as white as paper. His chest was heaving. Glancing back at the stage and seeing the bats, Thomas reached down and placed his hand on Bruce's knee.

"Can we go?" Bruce gasped out. "Please?" With a look of understanding, Thomas nodded his head and took Martha's hand and whispered in her ear. She glanced down at Bruce and then together they all stood up and eased their way past the rest of the audience in their row. Then quickly, as they got into the aisle they hurried out to the lobby.

"Sir are you sure you would like to leave? We will not be able to allow you back in until the beginning of the next act," an usher remarked.

"That's quite alright," Thomas replied as they walked through the lobby and out the front door.

"Bruce are you alright?" Martha asked. He just nodded his head while his father patted him on the back.

"A little bit of opera goes a long way, right Bruce? Come on, lets get back to the train station." Walking arm-in-arm with Martha, they all took to the night streets of Gotham heading toward the nearest train station.

"Here, let's take this shortcut," Thomas said, leading them down a narrow street called Park Row. "This is where Leslie works, Martha."

"Oh, in here?" Indeed one of the doors they passed carved out in the side of the alleyway had a sign that read, "Leslie Thompkins Medical Clinic." Bruce had only met Leslie a few times in his life. She had apparently been a student with Thomas in Medical School, and even a co worker at the hospital for a while. A lifelong friend of the Wayne's and a renowned medical professional, Leslie had left the hospital to start her own clinic, dedicating her considerable skills toward helping Gotham's neglected and impoverished population in the inner parts of the city.

They passed the door and continued toward the end of the street, which is where Thomas said the train stop was located. Bruce was glad to be out in the cool night air, calming down from his panic attack at the theater. He was so thankful for his parent's being understanding and letting him leave, but he didn't want to tell them for fear that they might tease him. He felt worse enough on his own about his fears.

A man entered the street in front of them and started walking toward them. Bruce noticed his mother's uneasiness as she clang closer to her husband who looked to have perked up, as if on his toes for the worst. Bruce didn't understand what was to be worried about. The man ahead looked like any other, wearing a coat, muddy pants, and a cap with the brim pulled low. There was hardly anything to be nervous about.

But as they came into close proximity to each other the man exploded into movement, whipping a gun out from his coat and pointing it directly at Thomas. Bruce stepped back in shock, his heart racing but barely able to move.

"Wallets, jewelry," the man ordered, his arm trembling as he held the outstretched gun. "Come on. Fast."

"That's fine," Thomas said quietly, his hands up in a submissive gesture.

"Fast!"

"That's fine. That's fine. Take it easy. Just take it easy." Thomas slowly reached into his coat pocket and removed his wallet. The man's eyes fixed onto the wallet and he reached out with his free hand to take it. Keeping eye contact Thomas said, "Here you go." But as the wallet touched the hand of the mugger, Thomas let go and the mugger let it slip out of his hand and to the ground. The mugger's glare shot up to Thomas, enraged like a feral animal, but Thomas just calmly kept his hands raised and said quietly, "It's fine. It's fine." The mugger slowly bent himself down, keeping his eyes fixed and gun aimed at Thomas, blindly reaching out for the wallet. Finally he clasped it and began returning to a stand.

"Now just take it," Thomas said as kindly as he could. "Just take it, and go away." But the mugger's glance shifted toward Martha along with his gun and he sputtered out, "I said Jewelry!"

"Hey!" Thomas shouted, stepping between the barrel of the weapon and his wife. It all happened so fast that Bruce didn't know what had happened until after the shots had rang through his head. The mugger had panicked at Thomas' sudden movement and squeezed the trigger, releasing a bullet into Bruce's father's body. He dropped to the ground like a brick of lead and Martha streaked a wrenching scream, "Thomas! THOMAS!" Bruce looked down at his father, eyes widening, only to hear the second shot ring out. His mother's shrieks were silenced forever, as she fell to the ground next to her husband. Her pearls flew in all directions, hitting the ground and rolling around loose on the pavement.

Breathless, Bruce looked up at the man who stood above him, who looked down at the boy a stare as blank and gaunt as the bats, which had swarmed around him earlier that year. Then, slipping the wallet and the gun into his coat, the man turned and ran back into the shadows. Bruce was alone.

The silence in the alleyway was almost defeating, as it soundlessly pounded against the inside of Bruce's head like waves crashing on a crumbling cliff's side. He fell to his knees, splashing his legs down into the pooling blood, which was gathering around him. On both side laid his parent's lifeless bodies, and he was entirely alone. He would never hear his father's comforting voice again, or feel his mother's warm embrace. They were gone forever.

His gaze followed the flow of blood from the wound in Martha's neck down to the pool in which he knelt, and slowly he pressed his hand down into it. The pungent smell filled his nostrils, mixing with the Gotham night air. He felt like his eyes had been fused open, staring into the empty cityscape beyond. Tears wouldn't come, and the pit in his stomach grew only larger and larger. He was alone. His childhood was over. And so was his life.

That night, Thomas and Martha Wayne were shot, and destroyed as they fell to the ground. They would never rise again. But neither would Bruce, because when he finally stood up from the pavement, the child who had played happily in Wayne Manor and studied at the Gotham Heights Academy was gone. He was no longer that boy. He wasn't sure exactly who he was becoming, but for the moment he was simply empty. He was an empty vessel waiting for something to possess it.

"Hello?" a voice called out in the darkness. "Hello? Are you alright?" A woman approached him, though he didn't turn to see her. He simply stared. She gasped as she got closer, and muttered profanities in fear as she saw the bodies. Bruce thought he heard her gasp his father's name. No, he was sure of it. She had. It was Leslie. He didn't need to see her to know who it was. She must have heard the gunshots and come out to investigate. He wouldn't look at her. He couldn't look at her. He couldn't look at her, or the bodies, or the police that arrived later. He didn't even blink or sigh when he overheard the police saying they likely couldn't solve a case involving a random vagrant mugger. He didn't look at Alfred when he came to pick him up. Bruce kept on staring, hardly muttering a sound for the entire night. He even felt as if was staring into the gaping darkness in his sleep. The shock would not pass.

It rained on the day of the funeral. People arrived dressed in black and listened and watched as Martha and Thomas were lowered into the ground of the family plot, which resided near the Manor. Bruce hadn't bothered opening his umbrella. He just let the rain run over his hair and down his face, though he could hardly feel it. He could hardly feel anything.

People wished him condolences and told him they would help him manage whatever his parent's left him. He wouldn't need help with that. Alfred had been appointed as his legal guardian, and Leslie had offered her help as a sort of surrogate mother as well. Alfred and Leslie were friends, though Bruce was not entirely fond of her. He was especially not fond of the idea of someone filling in for his mother. At least Alfred would know his place. Alfred would never try to be Thomas Wayne. Alfred would be Alfred. A servant. A fatherly figure in his own right, but a servant at the end of the day.

There were plenty of the rest of Gotham's wealthy citizens in attendance. Bruce knew very few of them. He recognized the Falcone's, people Thomas had not thought highly of though he spent plenty of time with them. Tommy Elliot had been there with his parents, but he hadn't bothered to say much of anything. Bruce didn't look at any of them though. Not even his parent's caskets. He just kept on staring.

It wasn't until the guests had left and Bruce was back in his bedroom in the manor that he began to feel anything. He stood by the window, still drenched in water, and stared out at the family burial grounds in the distance. And as he stared he could see their tombstone rising above the rest.

"Master Bruce," Alfred said as he entered the room behind him. "Are you alright Master Bruce?" Bruce didn't respond, the feelings just barely starting to bubble up inside of him. Alfred continued, "I thought I might begin to prepare your supper." Bruce didn't respond. He didn't know how. Alfred sighed in acknowledgement and turned to leave when the growing weight in Bruce's core began to boil and bubble its way up and out of his throat.

"Alfred," he choked out as he spun around to face the butler.

"Master Bruce?"

"Alfred, it's my fault Alfred. It's all my fault!" Tears flowed from the boy's eyes. It was the first time he had cried since the murder. It was the first time he had really felt anything since the fear from the opera had drained out of him and the gunshots had rattled his eardrums. Alfred ran forward, kneeling down to Bruce's eyelevel and wrapped his arms around the boy.

"Oh no Bruce. No."

"If I hadn't gotten scared-" Bruce cried.

"No," Alfred said, looking him sternly in the eyes. "It was nothing that you did. It was him, and him alone. Do you understand me?" Bruce rushed his head into Alfred's shoulder, burying his face in the coat.

The crying continued on and off for most of the evening but eventually the tears ran out. Bruce didn't eat dinner that night. He didn't have the appetite. In fact, he went back to his lifeless mood, staring out at the loneliness. But he didn't feel empty. He felt sad. He felt lonely. He felt guilty.

He was put to bed by Leslie that night, and he laid there so still and lifelessly that she thought he had fallen asleep before she even left the room. He let her believe it. It made her happy. She worried about him so much, seeing how he had reacted to it. She couldn't imagine how a boy who had grown up as Bruce had could handle watching his parents be gunned down before his very eyes. He worried he'd hardly be able to sleep at all, especially after hearing about the chiroptophobia he had developed after his encounter with the bats. So it was comforting for her to think he had slipped off into sleep so effortlessly. Quietly she snuck out the door, and closed it behind her.

But Bruce was not asleep. He opened his eyes as soon as she had left the room and stared into the corner of his bedroom. The sorrow was welling up in his throat, swelling to such proportions that he thought he might burst. And then he heard the gunshots. The two gunshots which had killed his family. He no longer saw the bats sprawling in the air around him, but the shadowed figure of the gunman and his parents dropping to the ground around him. His father fall, his mother's screams, and the blood-spattered pearls flying through the air. Again and again and again he saw this. His heart racing faster and faster and faster. The voices of the police saying they couldn't find the mugger. The sound of the train in the distance. The echo of the steps the mugger took as he came closer. His whining in the opera house.

And then something snapped. It all went away. His entire body shook as he sat up in bed and clenched his fists. The sorrow was gone, and the guilt was melting away. This feeling was new. It was a feeling that would permeate much of the remainder of his life. It was anger. The boy, Bruce Wayne, was gone. And as he stood up out of bed, a rush of newfound power surged up through his body he shouted at the darkness in the room.

"I swear!" he shouted. "Mother, Father, I swear!" It was all he could vocalize. It was all his anger would allow. But in his head the words swirled around, fluidly, and profoundly fleshing themselves out: I swear, I will avenge your deaths. I will spend the rest of my life warring on _all_ criminals. All criminals. I swear."


	2. Chapter 2: What It Takes

"Beginning our final descent into Gotham City. Please return seats and trays to their upright position-" the voice of the stewardess came through the speakers in a muffled tone.

It was January 4th, and Bruce Wayne looked out the window and saw the sprawling city below. It had been a long time since he last had laid eyes on it. He was now 27 years old, a far cry from the boy who used to run around in the gardens of Wayne Manor.

Gotham City was built along the shoreline, though it had clearly grown much larger than its original settlers had intended. Along the hills in the west he could see Gotham Heights, and within that he could make out the Palisades, the neighborhood in which old Gotham money had built ancient mansions which still stood today. It overlooked other neighborhoods consisting largely of rundown homes and apartments. As the city stretched eastwards toward the water, the buildings got larger and larger until it hugged the very edge of the ocean and spread off into three major island districts which were the bulk of city. It was like multiple Manhattan islands all connected by a spider web of bridges and tunnels.

_From here, _Bruce thought as the plane descended, _it looks like clean shafts of concrete and snowy roofs. The work of men who died generations ago. From here it looks like an achievement. From the street it looks like a city crumbling into the seaside… and the buildings are like rows of teeth with rotting roots. I should have taken the train. I should be closer. I should see the enemy._

The plane landed smoothly and Bruce picked himself up from his first class chair, taking care to wrap a scarf around himself, and disembarked from the plane. As he left his gate he was met by a bag carrier from the Gotham International Airport who had already stacked his luggage on a cart.

"Where will we be taking these, Mr. Wayne?" the man asked.

"I'm meeting my butler out in the pickup," Bruce said, leading the way. As they passed baggage-claim there was a throng of people, flashing lights, cameras, and handheld recording devices. And then came the barrage of shouts.

"It's Bruce Wayne!"

"Welcome home Mr. Wayne!"

"How's it feel to be back in Gotham?"

"Any plans, Mr. Wayne?"

"Princess Caroline- any truth to the rumors?"

_The paparazzi,_ Bruce lamented. _I didn't want this much publicity. I should have had Alfred declare me dead. I was gone long enough. Could have slipped back unnoticed, and conducted my business in peace. I wouldn't have even had to take up residence back at the mansion. Could have just gotten an apartment in the Narrows or something. That's what I should have done._

"Bruce Wayne!" a woman darted out in front of him. Her long, flowing red hair and beaming smile could have been recognized by anyone in Gotham. It was Vicki Vale, probably Gotham's most well known reporter. From gossip to hard-hitting stories, she covered it all with unparalleled eagerness.

"Miss Vale," Bruce nodded.

"Bruce, what can you tell us about your return to Gotham, and any plans or romances you might have in the pipeline while you're here?"

"No comment," Bruce said as he feigned a smile and raised his hand. He passed by briskly and Vicki returned to look into the camera behind her, shrugging with a grin.

"Well there you have it Gotham," she said. "The twenty-seven-year old heir to the Wayne Millions declined comment on rumors of romance in his life, or on his plans on his return to Gotham after around a decade abroad. We'll keep you posted on Gotham's richest – and best looking – native son. Back to you Jack."

"Thank you Vicki," Jack Ryder nodded, back at the GCTV studio, queuing the next story. "Following the disappearance of a key witness, Assistant District Attorney Harvey Dent has withdrawn conspiracy charges against Police Commissioner Loeb-"

"Master Bruce," Alfred said as Bruce approached his limousine. "I trust you've been well."

"Alfred," Bruce extended his hand to shake Alfred's hand, but the butler ignored the gesture entirely and embraced him in a hug. Though it was not the welcome Bruce wanted, and a twinge of annoyance ran through his body, he couldn't help but smile. They loaded the luggage into the car and immediately set off towards Wayne Manor.

"You know Wayne Enterprises has been doing altogether quite well in recent years Master Bruce."

"So I hear."

"Luscious Fox runs its operations, you know," Alfred explained. "He was a good friend of your father's, if you can recall." Bruce barely did recall. Nor did he want to. He didn't come back to integrate himself in the clockwork of Wayne Enterprises. He had other things to take care of.

"Mmm. Good," Bruce said dismissively. Alfred sighed, knowing full well how uninterested Bruce would be in any topic he could come up with.

"How long do you expect to stay in Gotham, Master Bruce?"

"Not long," Bruce answered. _I wish I had taken the train…_

_Gotham City,_ thought the morose James Gordon. _Maybe it's all I deserve now. Maybe it's just my time in hell._ He looked around at his fellow train passengers, mostly vagrants and degenerates, and shook his head. He could have sworn someone near him had soiled themselves during the ride. The smell of filth and vile was almost overpowering. Gotham looked like it was rotting from the ground up through the grime caked onto the windows of the train. A hiss from the rails sounded out through the air as the trail started to slow to a halt. The passengers stirred and began standing, readying themselves for the departure.

_Twelve hours,_ he recounted. _My stomach has been eating itself for the last five. So hungry… Barbara and Babs are flying in. I don't care how much it costs. And I don't care that you're not supposed to fly when you're pregnant. The train is no way to come to Gotham. In an airplane, from above, all you'd see are the streets and buildings. Fool you into thinking it's civilized. _He couldn't believe he had to transfer here from Chicago, wiping his glasses off as he lamented. Of all the places for a police officer to be sent, Gotham City likely topped the lists of places least desired. At least it was for the _good_ cops.

James Gordon was good cop. He had tried to be, at any rate. It was becoming harder and harder to keep one's morality in this business, or so Gordon believed. He had noticed a steady increase in corruption in his last station, and had tried to do what he could to take it apart. A few bad cops were taken down, and he received a minor promotion for it, but in the end he had tried to take down the wrong man. Whether or not that man was innocent or guilty with enough good connections, Gordon had never found out. It had been humiliating. And beyond that, the threats on his family's safety were growing. At least he felt so. _What was the point of trying to do so much good only to have entirely stagnant progress?_ He had wondered this many times until finally he requested a transfer. But there was only one force that requested him. The GCPD, Gotham City Police Department. He hoped everything would be ok, but thus far Gotham had not looked like the sort of city one would want to bring their family.

Gordon very much loved his family. He and his wife, Barbara, had been married for fifteen years, and they had been mostly great until recently. The stress of his job had heightened, as had the stress in his relationship. Which was a serious shame. And it had gotten all the worse a few months back when Barbara had realized that she was pregnant. They hadn't planned on a baby. In fact, James didn't think Barbara _could_ have another baby. Their last child had been through a complicated birth, and that was nearly thirteen years ago. Either way, she'd grown up fairly effortlessly. They named her after her mother, Barbara, though James liked to call her Babs. He had called his wife Babs when they were dating.

"Gordon," a voice shouted from across the bustling train station. "Lieutenant James Gordon!" The voice had come from a tall blonde man, well-built, wearing a long coat. Gordon had been told someone from the force was coming out to meet him, so he just waved his hand and the man came closer.

"Hello," Gordon said, offering his hand. The tall man just completely ignored it and wrapped his arm over Gordon's shoulder, pulling him in like a friend.

"Name's Flass," he said. "Detective Flass. Commissioner Loeb sent me to make sure you didn't miss your appointment with him. I like the mustache, Jimmy! Hope you don't mind if I call you Jimmy. Never could grow one myself."

"Well I-" Gordon _did_ mind, and he was really pretty tired of hearing wise-cracks from other cops about his mustache.

"Welcome to Gotham, Jimmy. Its not as bad as it looks. Especially if you're a cop. Cops got it made in Gotham."

_So I've heard,_ Gordon thought to himself.

Flass drove like a maniac, acting as if he owned the road. Gordon held on for dear life, and hoped that he would at least get along with the Commissioner. He didn't think he could handle working with someone like Flass every single day.

_I keep telling myself it's either this or pumping gas,_ he thought. _Then I tell myself I'm doing it for Barbara…_ Suddenly the car slammed to a halt. Gordon looked out the window, but didn't see the GCPD building. He did, however, see a group of teenagers loitering around on a street corner. Flass was getting out of the car, purposefully staring at them.

"Flass, what's-"

"Nothing I can't handle solo, Jimmy," Flass said dismissively as he turned his attention to the boys who all suddenly seemed to be standing on-edge. "Mother know you're here, Stevie?"

"Oh man…" one of the boys said. "Look Flass, I'm not doing anyth-" And Gordon watched in shock as Flass hit the boy across the jaw with a particularly nasty right hook, and then slammed him up against a dumpster.

_You had better know your facts, Jim,_ Gordon told himself. _Get all the facts straight this time. Before you try to bring own another cop. Especially in public. Flass has had Green Beret training. I can tell. And he knows how to use his size. I'll watch this time, not do a thing about it, but I'll need to memorize his every move. Just in case. For future reference._ Crooked cops weren't anything new to James Gordon.

"Was that necessary?" Gordon asked as Flass slumped back into the car.

"Had this little beauty in his pocket," Flass said as he tossed Gordon what appeared to be a pocket knife. But it wasn't. Gordon opened it up and revealed it to be a portable comb.

"It's a comb Flass."

"Heh, I'm only human Jimmy. Gotta keep those punks on their toes you know?"

_It makes me sick to admit it,_ Gordon thought, _but I wish Barbara would have a miscarriage. This is no place to raise a baby._

They continued on their way, and when they arrived, Gordon had to admit he was fairly impressed. The GCPD building was enormous and elaborate, at least from ground level. They walked up stairs and passed numerous offices until coming to one labeled "Gillian B. Loeb."

"You know, we're delighted to have you on the team Lieutenant," Loeb would say once they were in his office. Loeb was pudgy, and wrinkled in the face. His bald head wasn't smooth and shiny like most bald heads, but rather resembled the skin of a hairless cat. And he was constantly popping cough drops into his mouth, over and over and over again.

"You'll get my best work, sir. I promise," Gordon told him.

"And we _are_ a team," Loeb said, ignoring Gordon's promise. "And a team needs team spirit, wouldn't you say? Yes it does! And your record shows that you've got what it takes."

"I've made my mistakes sir," Gordon responded. "But I'm grateful for this chance to prove myself."

"What mistakes have you made, Gordon?" Loeb laughed, with a look on his face as if they were all in on the same inside joke. "Whatever mistakes you've made you kept the media away from it! That's the bottom line, isn't it?"

"I swear you won't have to worry about my honesty Commissioner."

"That is the last thing on my mind. Last thing. We'll have to pair you up with a partner soon, I suppose. I was thinking you and Detective Flass would make a good team." Gordon tried his best to keep a straight face and not show is disdain.

_I guess it's just my time in hell, _he reminded himself.

_Wayne Manor. Built as a fortress, generations past, to protect a fading line of royalty from an age of Equals. It's good to be back._ Bruce looked up at the great majestic façade of the house as he and Alfred entered its now mostly empty halls.

"It's been a long time since you've been here, hasn't it Master Wayne?"

"It has Alfred. Not since I was a teenager."

"I've prepared the master bedroom, for your arrival."

"No. My room will be fine."

"With all due respect, Sir, Wayne Manor is your house."

"No, Alfred, it's my father's house."

"Your father is dead, Master Wayne."

"And this place is a mausoleum. If I had my way, I'd pull the damn thing down brick by brick."

"This house, Master Wayne, has sheltered over six generations of your family. I don't see-"

"Why do you give a damn, Alfred? It's not your family."

"I give a damn, because a good man once made me responsible for what was most precious to him in the whole world. I have cared for you since your cries first echoed in these very halls, and you are as precious to me as you were to your own mother and father." Bruce felt his own guilt condemning him for how he had treated Alfred much of his life. He was right. He had cared for Bruce since infancy.

"I'm sorry Alfred," Bruce said. "You're as much my family as anybody else, if not more so. Sometimes I just don't know what to do with… the past."

"Master Bruce, I wouldn't presume to tell you what to do with your past, sir. Just know that there are those of us who care about what you do with your future."

"You haven't given up on me yet?"

"Never," Alfred smiled as he moved the luggage into the master bedroom. Bruce followed behind, looking at the walls of the room in which he had so often seen his parents as a child.

"It really _has_ been a long time, hasn't it?"

"You left Gotham when you were around sixteen, wasn't it?" It was.

The night of his parent's funeral, Bruce found purpose within himself. He began applying all of his energies to his mission. He read as many books as he could in the following years, learning whatever he could as an armchair detective. But there was only so much he could learn at Gotham Heights Academy or in the libraries of the manor or county. He needed more knowledge, and skills, and he couldn't get that living at Wayne Manor.

And there were other reasons for leaving the manor too. There was Alfred and Leslie. They cared, and wanted to steer him down the path of a normal boy. But he wasn't normal. He was not like any other boy. He had to thwart all those well meaning people that wanted to care for him. And for all those who wanted to care for his fortune. He was the heir to Wayne Enterprises, and there were a lot of greedy people tied up in that business. Good people too. But either way, this was all a life that Bruce had been chained to that he was simply not interested in. Not anymore. He had to get away.

So he wrote letters. Letters that weren't exactly forgeries but that weren't exactly anything else. They enabled him to leave Gotham at age sixteen and begin a global quest to reach his goals. He visited prestigious campuses all over the East Coast, learning under the tutelage of some of the best professors in all of the entire United States of America. But he learned in other places as well. He learned with the homeless, gathered around fires in trashcans. He talked to kids on the streets who roved in gangs.

But wherever he went, he never stayed long.

"It's a pity you never found yourself concerned enough to finish your education at any of the Universities you enrolled in," Alfred said. Bruce shrugged. Alfred never knew the purpose of his travels. And quite honestly, he was used to hearing criticisms about his college career.

"That Wayne boy's bright," his professors would say. "But he's got no discipline. He skips around and won't decide on a major."

"Why are you leaving?" a beautiful classmate once asked when he was about to move on. She was tall, thin, and had a gorgeous head of flowing, silky blonde hair. But she also had a boyfriend, and Bruce knew the life he had chosen was never going to be conducive to romance.

"Because frankly," he would reply, his voice dripping with arrogance. "I'm bored." He turned his back and began to walk away only to here her mutter under her breath, "Rich snot." He turned away, pretending he hadn't heard. But he quickly looked back, sneaking a glance as she turned to kiss her boyfriend, and the ache he felt seemed to fill his entire building.

But in time, he learned to ignore the ache, and the pain of loss and isolation. They were the conditions of his life, and he accepted them. There was always another plane, or train or bus. There was always another city, and another teacher. And to do that, he had to keep other people at bay.

"You know," Alfred said. "I mean this with all due respect, I cannot judge your decisions with schooling. Though I had hoped you had at least found your niche when you were with the FBI."

"I did too," Bruce said quietly. "But it didn't really pan out."

When he was twenty, Bruce decided to settle in the nation's capital, Washington DC. Once there, he had tirelessly sought out a recruiting officer for the Federal Bureau of Investigation and begged him to be able to test for hiring.

"Well bruce, these test scores are impressive, to say the least," the officer had told him. "All except for your target shooting, but between you and me a Federal Officer doesn't pull his piece very often." For all of the skills Bruce had tried to acquire, shooting was never one of them. He truly despised guns, and could scarcely squeeze a trigger without seeing the murder of his parents right before his eyes. He never really wanted to use one. But the officer continued, "Of course, we prefer College grads… usually people a bit older… maturity… and of course we like a law degree. But honestly, in your case, we can waive the academic requirements." And as the two shook hands, Bruce entered FBI training.

He trained six weeks and during that time he'd learned much about writing reports, obeying regulations, analyzing statistics, and dressing neatly, but nothing else. The experience confirmed a suspicion he'd long had. He could not operate within a system. The people who caused other people harm did not recognize the system. The people who stepped out of shadows and murdered innocents did not recognize systems, and neither could he. He left the country that night, traveling the entire globe learning everything he could about combat, self discipline, and honing every skill he had, only on occasion letting Alfred know he was still alive and doing ok. And though he felt he had to remain alone to accomplish his mission, perhaps that part was wrong.

"I'm sorry Alfred," he said, looking his friend in the eyes.

"Master Wayne?"

"I'm sorry I haven't let you into my life as much as I should have."

"Don't worry about that," Alfred said. "We can put all of that behind us now. You're back, for the time. Let bygones be bygones." Alfred's kindness really only made Bruce feel worse, but he smiled back all the same.

Flass was driving again, and once again Gordon was hanging on for dear life. It had been three weeks since Gordon first came to Gotham and met his new partner. And in those three weeks he had quickly learned what was expected of the cops in Gotham, and Flass may have been the worst.

"So, uh, Jimmy," Flass said. "The boys… they've been asking me to talk to you, Jimmy. Though maybe I could get a word in, knowing how tight we are. They're worried about you."

"I'm touched Flass," Gordon said dismissively. "But right now I'm worried about getting home safely. Turn left."

"You'll never make it in this business if you don't learn to relax, Jimmy. I mean, we've got our own way of doing things, here in Gotham."

"Please call me Lieutenant," Gordon grunted.

"I mean, you came down pretty hard on some of us the other day… I mean, you with a baby on the way and all, I just-"

"Are you _threatening _me, Detective?"

"No, no, it's just… you're so uptight. Just makes some of us guys nervous."

"I'm not a rat, Flass," Gordon hissed. "In a town this bent, who's there to rat to anyway?" Flass laughed as he pulled the car to a stop in front of a worn-down boardinghouse.

"Well, just think about it, Jimmy," Flass said. "I'll be by in the morning?"

"I'm driving myself tomorrow," Gordon said as he stepped out of the car. "Thanks for the ride." He shut the door and walked around the driveway to the backdoor and saw his family waiting for him inside. But he could hardly look them in the face. They used to live in a nice small house, and now they were in this rundown apartment. His pregnant wife and his daughter. He just walked past them and sat down at the table.

"Dad," his daughter said. "How was work?"

"It was ok Babs, how was your day?"

"It was good," she said. "But dad, there _is_ something I kind of want to talk to you about."

"Oh?" Gordon looked up at his wife worriedly but she didn't return the glance.

"Yeah," she continued. "I just… I think I'm a little old to be called Babs still. I want to go by Barb."

"Barb?" Gordon sighed out in relief that the matter wasn't any more serious. "I think I could get used to that. Well, _Barb_, is school treating you ok?"

"Yup!" she said excitedly. "I think I'm a little ahead though. The kids here are learning things I learned like… probably four years ago? Five years ago? Some of them still have a really hard time reading."

"Well maybe we can look at getting you in some sort of advanced programs, or skipping a grade or something," Gordon said.

"Jim!" his wife interjected. "Can't she just have a normal life without you pushing her in all directions?"

"Calm down," he replied. "She can do whatever she wants. I'm just letting her know the option is there should she choose to take it."

"Thanks dad," Barb said. "I'll think about it. I might like that actually." Gordon smiled. He couldn't believe she was as old as she was. She seemed so grown up, more advanced that many her age, but it also felt like only yesterday that she was just a little girl. She admired him a lot, which worried his wife. The life of a cop was hardly what her mother had wanted for her. It wasn't what he wanted for her either, especially in Gotham, but he strived to let her make her own choices as much as possible. He hoped he could be enough of a confident parent to let his child be her own manager. Still, the idea of young Barbara interacting with people like Flass and Loeb was one that made him sick. And in fact, back at the GCPD, Flass and Loeb were meeting in the commissioner's office.

"So Father Donelley, he slips Gordon a fifty with the handshake," Flass said as he slapped his hand down on Loeb's desk. "And Gordon, he just looks at it like his hand's got a disease. Then he throws the fifty in the Padre's face! He gave the squad a two-hour lecture. Put Schell on probation. He's just not fitting in, Gill!"

"I had such high hopes for that boy," Loeb said as he rubbed his palm over his forehead.

"I could get the boys together and uh… soften him up a bit," Flass said, leaning in so close that Loeb could feel his breath.

"No," Loeb shot back. "No, not while I'm in town. There's enough heat on me as it is. That friggin' Assistant District Attorney, Dent, nearly had me about a month ago. If Falcone hadn't put his money to good use, I'd be outta here. No, you'll have to wait until I'm at the conference in Washington… two weeks Flass… Two weeks. Then teach him a lesson." Flass smiled back, relishing the thought. _This_, Flass thought, _is what bein' a cop in Gotham City is all about._

_I requested this night shift off four times now, _Gordon thought to himself as he walked down the driveway to his car. _It's Valentine's Day and Barbara had the whole evening planned… She needs me now, what with the baby on the way. But geez, four times and no reply. I'm not making friends in this department…_

"Goin to work, Lieutenant?" a voice called out from around the corner of the driveway fence. Gordon looked over as four men all in ski masks and holding baseballs bats jumped out and began to attack him. He was immediately struck on the back of the head and knocked to the ground, being hit repeatedly all over his body. He eventually felt his entire person turn into one dull pain. Somewhere in the middle of the beating, he heard them tell him it was just a warning, reminding him of his wife, daughter, and baby on the way. But toward the end, as he laid there bruising over the cold pavement, he heard a familiar chuckle. It was Flass. His body hurt so badly that he might have just laid on the cement until somebody found him, feeling the frigid air numb his pain, but after hearing that chuckle and realizing what had just happened, he could do nothing else beside standing up. This had to end.

Elsewhere, at that exact moment, Bruce Wayne sat in a darkened car parked near the East End of Gotham City. In the darkness the lights glittered. He winced, knowing that to some, Gotham looked like it would be a treat to visit. Down there, teaming on the streets, he knew his enemy was waiting.

_Everything is set, _Bruce thought to himself, going over the details of his plan one more time. _The attendant was even obliging enough to ask for my autograph. My alibi is set. Bruce Wayne has been sighted at the same hotel as a visiting Hollywood sex queen. That should generate sufficient rumors to account for my whereabouts for the next few hours. This is a reconnaissance mission. I must avoid too much conflict tonight. My anonymity is an obvious priority. The murder of my parents is a matter of public record. All it requires is this change of clothing. _He was dressed in a grubby coat , and had matted his hair as to blend in with the nighttime street-crowds.

_And a single, memorable, distracting detail,_ he thought as he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a tiny makeup kit. Using the rearview mirror he quickly went to work, fabricating a long scar down the left side of his face. It looked good. It looked extremely good.

Pulling a cap over his head, and stepped out of the car and left the lot. With his hands in his pockets and trying his best to keep his head down, at least when others were looking, he began a long twenty block walk across Gotham. What he hoped to find, he wasn't sure. To see the filth. To see someone who deserved punishment. Maybe the man who killed his parents, maybe not.

_If I found him,_ Bruce thought, _what would I do? It haunts me to think he is still out there, and I might run into him. What I might do. Regardless, I have devoted everything to stopping that criminal, no matter what faces he may wear. It's been an educational walk so far. I was sized up like a piece of meat by the boys in Robinson Park. I waded through pleas and half-hearted threats from junkies at the Finger Memorial. I stepped across a field of human rubble that lay sleeping in front of the overcrowded Sprang Mission. But finally I am at the worst of it. The East End. Hard to believe it's gotten worse._

And, indeed, it had gotten worse. Rows of strip clubs and peep shows lined the streets, bathing the road in an eerie red glow. And between the buildings, crawling all over the sidewalks, were a throng of suppliers, pushers, pimps and prostitutes all selling their filth in the name of a fun evening. He must have seen nearly half a dozen cop cars in the neighborhood, but none of them were lifting a finger to stop any of it. And how could they? Taking down an entire district would be like taking on an army. Still though, Bruce thought, something else must be at work. Druglords, powerful gangs, even crime families and mobs must be controlling much of the illegal activity and paying off the cops to keep out of it. The theory made sense but Bruce had known himself to be a bit paranoid before. He's have to wait until more evidence was gathered.

"Cheer you up?" a voice cooed from behind. Bruce turned to see a girl staring up him. She looked young, probably a teenager. Blonde hair, grubby makeup, one of the shortest skirts Bruce had seen all night and a loose silky top.

"I doubt it," Bruce said. "How old are you?"

"Young as you want me to be," she said ethereally, obviously trying to seduce him.

"No stupid girl," a man shouted in a white overcoat and brimmed hat, approaching the girl at a brisk pace. "That's all wrong, Holly!"

"Did what you said," Holly replied, taking fast. "Just like- ow!" The man grabbed her arm tightly.

"That's right, Honey" he hissed. "But you got to pick the _types_. Got to know what ones want what you got! This one's not-"

"I haven't said, have I?" Bruce growled. The man turned over his shoulder and glared.

"That vice I smell? That crazy vet bit? That's old, man."

"I'm not the police," Bruce said. "Believe me." The man rolled his eyes and looked back at Holly.

"You still here? Told you to go, Holly."

"Yeah but, he hadn't said."

"We'll talk this over later, Sweet Cheeks," the man growled as he grabbed her by the hair and began forcibly moving her out of the way. Bruce watched it unfold as if it was in slow motion and breathed in deeply through his nostrils.

_This is it. Years of waiting, and of patience. It begins._

"No," Bruce growled. "I think you're finished with her."

"Man, you're pushin'. You're lookin for a new scar there? That's right. Just tell me where!" The man pulled a knife from his pocket, brandishing it, and Bruce tensed his own body, as if he were coming in tune with every muscle, ready to use them each for precisely what he needed in the forthcoming fight.

Meanwhile, in a second story apartment above, a woman named Selina Kyle had heard the commotion building on the street. Selina had lived in the East End for much of her life. She knew how the streets of Gotham worked. She had tried to make it on her own. But it was hard.

"In Gotham," she would often say. "The rich get richer and poor get poorer." And she hated that fact. She hated everything about it. She hated the scum on the streets that made girls like Holly Robinson grow up thinking they were only worth as much as the sex they were willing to have. She hated the piles of druggies that lined the pavement. She hated the cops who picked on those too unfortunate to get out of their circumstances. She hated the wealthy who acted like nothing was wrong. She hated the wealthy who thought they were philandering but really amounting to absolutely nothing. And she hated most of all the wealthy who were continually pushing everybody else down. The elite who paid off cops and shipped drugs from overseas. She hated most things. Gotham City was a disease, and it was well overdue for a cure.

But Selina lived amongst the disease. There wasn't much she could do about it. So she was often a victim, having to make due in the circumstances she had. She was forced to play the game. And to keep from starving, she had to live here, in Gotham's worst district, playing the part of a dominatrix. There was no pleasure in it for her though. It was all about tuning in the rage she felt. She carried a lot of hate.

Walking over to the window, she looked down and saw the man with the scar taking on the pimp.

"Oh jeez," she grumbled. "Can't be vice. We're paid up… Probably just some idiot out to get himself killed." She recalled the multiple times she too had attempted suicide. It just never seemed to take.

"Selina," a man, drugged out of his mind and tied to a nearby bed called. "Selina, come back. Don't stop now."

"Shut up, Skunk," she hissed.

"Please Selina. Come back. Tell me why you hate us so much. Oh please."

"You know what I hate most about men?" she frowned. "I've never met one."

Down on the street the pimp continued lashing out toward Bruce, but he remained calm. Keeping his hands in his pockets he side stepped over and over, dodging ever strike.

_His eyes keep flickering away from the girls to me. He always turns away for a split-second. A dead giveaway. He's fast, I'll give him that. Doesn't stand a chance, but he's fast. Better wrap it up._

Bruce stepped to the side as the man swiped at him, and grabbed him by the wrist, quickly twisting it as he used his other arm to elbow him in the stomach. The pimp gasped and stepped back only for Bruce to spin around and deliver a kick into the man's jaw. He went sprawling backward, landing cold on the pavement. Pleased with himself, Bruce looked down on the man, when suddenly a sharp pain hit him right in his left thigh.

"Aaah!" he shouted, glancing down.

"Come on you guys, I got him," shouted Holly Robinson, who was latched onto his leg, sinking a tiny knife deeper and deeper into his leg. He couldn't believe it, as he stared down at the young girl. He had tried to save her, but she didn't want it. She was protecting the man who abused her as if he owned her like a piece of unwanted property. Why? And why would she take him on after seeing how he fought. She wasn't scared or impressed on anything. It had been without impact.

Two more prostitutes, both much burlier and older than Holly, pounced on his, clawing, kicking and grabbing. Thinking fast, Bruce kicked one of them away, while simultaneously reaching down, grabbing Holly's wrist, and yanking her and the knife away from him.

"Aaah," Holly winced as she bounced away on the pavement. "My wrist! I think he broke my wrist!"

"No!" Selina shouted from her window vantage point. "Nobody hurts Holly!" In one fluid motion she slipped out of the window, grabbed the fire escape railing, and launched herself down to the street below, landing on all fours to absorb the blow.

Bruce picked up the third assailant and tossed her into the side of the building, turning quickly to block a kick from Selina.

_This one's good, _Bruce thought. _Hissing like an animal, but she's had karate training. But probably only karate._ Blocking a few more strikes from her, he landed a punch across her jaw, knocking her to the floor.

"Selina!" Holly shouted, crawling over to her unconscious friend. "Get up Selina!" The sound of sirens rang in the air, getting closer. Bruce could see the red and blue lights approaching around the corner.

_No! No! No! If I'm caught it's over! It's all over! _

The car screeched to a halt and two men in uniform jumped out, guns drawn, shouting various orders at Bruce.

_How can I explain this? Should have brought some tools. Flash pellets or something. There's a fire escape to the right. If I jump up to it, maybe I can-_

A gunshot sounded, and Bruce felt it hit him in the left shoulder. The force was incredible, knocking him to the ground. Just like his parents, he had been felled. But he wasn't dead.

"Hey, he didn't even move, man," one of the cops said.

"He was going to."

"He needs a doctor. Look at all that blood. Think you hit an artery?"

"Maybe. We can get him help after he's booked. We're low on our quota this month."

"Pfft. How can they expect so much? Too many people pay up for us to make arrests."

Bruce felt the blood soaking his jacket, and he was fading in and out of blackness. He felt the cuffs go around his wrists, but then the pain seared as they lifted him up and pushed him into the backseat of their car. He blacked out. For how long, he didn't know. But he was out for a while, coming to as the car was moving.

"Any cash?" one of the cops asked.

"Couple bucks, I'd- ugh, look man, he's still bleeding," the other cop up in front said. "All over the seat, too. Sure you wanna skip the hospital"

"Look, I'm not registering that I took a shot at this guy. If he dies, he dies. I've run in a thousand like him. Drifters. Who needs them. Nobody cares."

_I can't let them take me in. Have to stop them._

Struggling to sit up, Bruce breathed, "You two. Stop the car. Get out."

"What the-"

"Don't mind him. Probably hopped up on something fast, you know?" Carefully, Bruce slid the cuffs down his back and under his legs, bringing them out in front of him.

"I warned you," he coughed as he threw them over the passenger's seat and used them to choke the officer.

"Whoa hey man stop!" the over cop swerved the car which promptly bounced into two other vehicles and them slammed into the trailer of a semi truck parked on the side of the road. Blood flew in all directions along with glass and other pieces of rubble. Bruce shook his head, knowing if he let himself go under, he might die. Then he realized what was going on.

_Fire. There's a fire. It'll only take seconds to reach the gas tank._

Using all his might he kicked the door of the car open, and began trying to drag the unconscious cops free of the wreckage. The sound of sirens were gathering in the distance.

_Sirens. More cops, and firemen. Tank will go before they get here. These men, they probably have families._

He pulled them out and dragged them away. The pain was getting worse and his head was getting lighter. The bleeding hadn't stopped. He had to get home immediately.

"Smoke from the blazing police cruiser can be seen for blocks," Vicki Vale reported, live. "And, oh, this just in, the two officers who were operating the vehicle have been found unconscious thirty feet away. They are safe, which means nobody had died in this strange accident. More details, as they arrive."

_Made it… somehow… to the car…_

Bruce felt his thoughts slipping as he leaned his head against the steering wheel of his car in the parking garage. Desperately, he tried to get his blood stained fingers to grip onto the key and turn it. He needed the car to start as quickly as possible. He didn't have much time left.

_Start. Turn… the key… Bruce, it isn't difficult… just a little slippery… they weren't scared of me. I failed… start… I saved her… why did she have to stab me… start!_

"Detective Flass?" a voice said over the radio in Gordon's car as he sped along the road. "Yeah he's off duty Leiutenant. You know that. Probably at the poker party over at Chute's, with the guys."

"Thank you, just checking," Gordon responded, trying to sound as polite as possible as he hung up the receiver.

_The guys... They did just enough to keep me out of the hospital, but still… can't let Barbara see me like this._

Covered in bruises and dried blood, Gordon had pulled himself together and was on his way to Bray Ridge where he knew Flass was. A baseball bat of his own sat in his passenger's seat. He meant to end this sort of behavior.

Chute's house looked cozy, surrounded in February snow. The bruises on Gordon's spine were forming when the first guests started to leave the party.

_Wilson is the first to leave. Of course he is. Doesn't want to make his wife stay up too late waiting for him. Spent the night with the guys rather than his wife. Plus, he still has his girlfriend to see before he goes home… It's Valentine's Day for goodness sake… _

Gordon's stakeout continued. Twenty minutes rolled by before more started to leave.

_Stannsen next. He's stumbling out like he just lost his life savings. Then Renny. I can let them both go. Oh! And there he is, finally. Flass. _

Flass staggered out, pretty drunk from the look of things. He was wearing his Gotham High letterman jacket. Gordon didn't expect any less. Slowly, he swaggered over to his station wagon. It took two tries to get in, but he finally accomplished it. The engine revved up, and he peeled out of the driveway, nearly flattening the mailbox on his way out. Keeping his lights off, Gordon followed behind. There was a stretch of road Gordon noticed along the way where nearly four minutes passed without seeing an houses. That is where Gordon would strike.

_He's ten over the limit,_ Gordon thought as they approached the wooded area. It was time. Gordon pressed his foot down on the pedal and sped his car up, swerving alongside Flass's car. It only took two nudges, but Gordon finally ran Flass off the road, sending the station wagon careening off into a snow bank.

Flass was bewildered at first, but then angry. Drawing his gun, he stumbled angrily out of his car, but Gordon was already there, waiting, with his gun drawn and aimed.

"Jimmy," Flass smiled as he tossed the gun back in the car and raised his hands. Gordon didn't say anything in return. He simply glared, and raised the baseball bat he had brought with him. Flass stared him down, knowing that a fight was coming. Slowly, Gordon lowered his gun, and then tossed the bat at Flass's feet.

_He didn't even try to hide his lack of surprise. He's big. Green Beret training at some point. But he deserves the handicap. Because this can't just hurt physically. It has to be embarrassing. I won't crack a skull. I won't crush his larynx. I won't break his ribs or punch his hand through his chest. I'll do just enough to keep him out of the hospital. _

Flass smiled, picking up the bat. But he was too drunk to fight really well, even with the handicap. He never landed a single blow, but Gordon did. A lot. Until finally Godon landed his knee in Flass' stomach, doubling him over, and then kicked him in the jaw, and punched him once more in the face as he went down.

He tossed Flass' gun off into the woods, hoping it would be rusty and ruined by morning. Then he cuffed him in his own cuffs by the side of the road.

_He'll never report it. Not Flass. He'll make up some story that involves at least ten attackers and never admit I did it. But he'll know. And he'll stay away from Barbara. Thanks, Flass. You've shown me what it takes to be a cop in Gotham City._

Looking back at his fallen foe, Gordon started his car and drove off.

The black car was crashed out in front of Wayne Manor, a pool of blood trailing from its open door up into the mansion. And in the darkened study of Thomas Wayne, Bruce sat in an armchair, bleeding all over himself.

_I failed. I'm afraid. I'm afraid I will die tonight. I've tried to be patient. I tried to wait. I failed. The problem is, it's not just rogue criminals. Gotham fosters them. That's the problem. Gotham has allowed crime to take over, the cops and politicians have all gone corrupt and caught up in it. Even the people on the streets defend that status quo rather than rise up and take back their city._

Bruce looked down and at the tiny bell sitting on his desk next to them. His father had rang that bell so many times to call Alfred. Now it was a lifeline. Bruce's voice couldn't carry out. This bell is what stood between him and death.

_If I ring this bell, Alfred will come. He can stop the bleeding in time. But I'd rather die if I cannot continue the mission. If I have to fail. I have waited years… so many years. So many years since the opera. Since the walk that night. And the man with frightened, hollow eyes and a voice like glass being crushed. Since all sense left my life. What can I do? How can I fulfill my promise? _

And then, as he slipped off into darkness he heard it. The tiniest blip, like a squeak. Slowly he let his head roll to the side and peer out the window. And there is was. A swarm of bats, rising up out of their caves on the grounds, flying out for the hunt. And then, without warning, it came.

Crashing through the window of the study, one great bat went sprawling through the air and landed on a stone bust of his father across the room. And it stared at him. It stared, wanting. Bruce saw before his eyes the day he had fallen into their pit, the day the attacked, the man with the gun who had scared him just as badly, and the people whom he had not frightened in the East End. And then, as he locked eyes with the little frightening creature, he knew what he must do.

_Yes. Yes, I shall become a bat. It's time my enemies shared my dread._

Quickly, he clasped the tiny bell in his hands and began shaking it. Elsewhere in the house, Alfred heard it's ringing, and hurried to the study.

_I shall become a bat._


	3. Chapter 3: Applied Sciences

"Master Wayne," Alfred insisted. "Are you certain I cannot convince you to wait until you've more fully healed from your injuries? Perhaps we could go back to the mansion and just spend the day recuperating. It's your birthday, after all, sir." Five days had passed since Bruce's first near-fatal escapade in the East End. Bruce and Alfred were currently stooped over the old well that Bruce had fallen into when he was eight. Alfred watched as Bruce strapped himself into a harness so that he could lower himself down into the caves.

"No time Alfred," Bruce said. "I've been patient long enough. I have to get to work immediately."

"As a vigilante, Master Bruce?" Alfred said. "Sir, I never would have let you move back had I known you were going to try and get yourself killed or thrown in jail."

"No Alfred, not a vigilante. Something more… I want to show the people of Gotham that their city doesn't belong to the criminals and the corrupt. My father used to say that the reason we fall is so that we can learn to pick ourselves up. _We_ can pick ourselves up."

"That's all fine and good, Sir, but is this really the way?"

"Alfred, people have tried other ways," Bruce retorted. "The assistant district attorney has made a name for himself trying to take down the crime in this city, and so far he has made almost no progress- but every crime family in Gotham is gunning for him. I cannot work within a system. Systems get corrupt, they get lost along the way…" Alfred sighed.

"In the beginning of our city's depression, your father nearly bankrupted Wayne Enterprises combating poverty for that very reason. He believed that his example could inspire the wealthy of Gotham to save their city."

"Did it?"

"In a way… their murder shocked the wealthy and the powerful into action."

"See Alfred, that's the point. People need dramatic examples to shake them out of apathy… I can't do that by being a vigilante… a thug… and I can't do that as Bruce Wayne. As a man, I'm flesh and blood. I can be ignored. I can be destroyed. But as a symbol… as a symbol I can be incorruptible… I can be everlasting…"

"What symbol?"

"A bat. Something elemental something terrifying… bats frighten me. I want my enemies to share that dread…"

"And I can't talk you out of this, Master Bruce?"

"No matter how hard you try."

"Then I assume that as you're taking on the underworld, this symbol is a persona to protect yourself and those you care about from… reprisals?"

"It can… Alfred, I just can't allow what happened to me to happen to anyone else. People are capable of an extremely high standard, and it's time we all rose to it." Alfred shook his head. He never knew what was stepping too far in his relationship with Bruce. He had never been extremely clear on the boundaries. He'd always just done what he thought was best. But he had to admit that he had always regretted letting Bruce leave home at such a young age. Bruce seemed so distracted and unfocused. But now he knew that Bruce had not been doing things without cause. He had a cause all along. And it was a cause that Alfred did not entirely approve of in the slightest.

"Master Bruce," Alfred said. "I am not your father. But I have honestly tried many times to be a figure of similar caliber. You need to know that I cannot let you go ahead with this in entirely good conscience. I am worried."

"I knew you would be," Bruce said as he readied himself to descend. "But I'm doing this with or without you."

"Very well, Sir," Alfred said. "But might I suggest a few things. You originally intended for this to be a very short fling in Gotham, did you not? You expected to go out like a martyr. Get retribution and change the streets in a few short nights- maybe even track down your parent's murderer. That is not the way to do this." Bruce looked dejected.

"What would you have me do?"

"Bruce, this is more complicated that frightening a few criminals. You are talking about a massive social movement, and that takes a great deal of time. It's not just a few nights out on the street. You're talking _years_, Master Bruce."

"Maybe."

"Either way, it will take a great deal longer than you originally intended which means you will need to create a cover of sorts. You need to get back into society a bit, make a tiny life for yourself here. If not socially, at least try to get reacquainted with Wayne Enterprises. Use it to your advantage. And who knows, perhaps while you're pretending to have fun as a socialite, you might actually have a little by accident."

"That's not a bad suggestion," Bruce said. "Wayne Enterprises would be a major asset in the plan… a well of resources… Though I doubt I can really get involved in the business. I'm not the majority shareholder anymore."

"You could be," Alfred shrugged. "If I relinquished my shares to you."

"Hmmm," Bruce stepped up onto the well. "Excellent. We'll talk more about it this evening. Make sure my line doesn't break." Alfred felt the pain of a worried parent as he watched Bruce act so nonchalant about this situation, but there wasn't much he could do. This had been brewing within the Wayne heir since he was eight years old. It would take a great deal of time to help him choose a safer, and happier, lifestyle.

"Perhaps someday we can both put your parents behind us," he whispered to himself.

Bruce meanwhile disappeared down into the hole. Though it had been decades since he had fallen, the details had been burned so thoroughly into his mind that he felt as if had been there only yesterday. Lighting his flashlight, he unharnessed crawled through the hole that he had seen the bats emerge from so many years ago.

It was long, narrow, and damp, but eventually it opened up into one massive cavern, with tunnels and chasms stretching for what looked like forever.

_These caves must run for miles under this area,_ Bruce thought to himself. _All of Gotham Heights must have this underneath the structures… caves, thousands of years old. This could make a perfect base of operations, once I find out how secure it is. It's hidden, but close enough to the house… _

He walked out into the most open part of the cave and noticed that to the south there was the sound of rushing water. He knew there was a wooded area, an old watershed that doubled as a nature preserve just south of the Palisades. As a boy, Bruce had explored the area pretty thoroughly, and he recalled that there were rivers and waterfalls.

_If a waterfall covers the entrance, I could use that. _He shined his light up toward the stretching stalactites above, and then he heard it. The sound from his childhood.

It started as a distant whisper, but the whisper gradually changed as the ceiling of the cave began to pulsate and crawl. And then the sound turned into something more. Something that stirred in the darkness. It grew from a whisper into a shuffle and a hiss. And it chittered. And then, suddenly, the darkness exploded from above. They boiled from the darkness, flapping, beating, gnawing, and clawing. It was a nightmare of leathery wings and gleaming eyes and fangs. The nightmare he had repeatedly experienced in sleepless nights since he was young.

Bruce threw himself to the ground as the air came alive with flying creatures. The bats surrounded him, choking the air. Bruce took in several deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. Squeezing his eyes shut, and holding one deep breath in his chest, slowly, arms outstretched, Bruce raised himself off of the ground. Once he was stalking upright, feeling the air whipping around him as the bats continued gliding through the cave, he exhaled and slowly opened his eyes. His heart rate slowed, and he gradually released his tense stance. And soon he was relaxed.

There, in the dark, Bruce Wayne found himself relaxed, focused, and surrounded by the creatures that had terrorized his dreams since he was eight years old. And there, surrounded by the hundreds of bats, he knew he was doing what he was meant to do. He had found his purpose.

_I will become a bat, _he thought to himself. He could do this.

Rain fell down onto the streets, as if nature itself was trying to wash the streets of Gotham clean. The day had started early with a call from Sargent Merkel to Lieutenant Gordon about a hostage situation in Brigham circle. He drove along the way, one hand on the steering wheel and one hand holding a mug of coffee.

"Come in Merkel," Gordon said into his radio as he hurried along the route. "I'm two blocks away, what's the situation."

"Yeah Gordon," Merkel's voice said, only somewhat garbled. "Best I can tell, nobody's sure what this guy wants. He isn't making much sense… He's holding three children hostage in a third story apartment. Has a gun and some knives, he says."

"Anyone hurt?"

"Um, no sir. Not that we can tell. He's been in and out of various mental institutions for the past five years or so… name's Zsasz. Victor Zsasz. Diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. Last time in a hospital was two weeks ago. No connection to the hostages from what I can tell. Oh hell, Lieutenant you're going to want to hurry up."

"Why's that? What's wrong?"

"It's Branden. Branden's team is rolling in."

Gordon dropped his mug of coffee, pressing down on the pedal, both hands on the wheel, and rammed his car up onto the sidewalk. His sirens blared as he zipped passed traffic, praying that anybody on the sidewalk would have enough brains to move out of the way.

_Hope I don't hit anybody. Coffee splashed all over my lap… shame. Barbara made it for me. No matter how quiet I try to be, she always wakes up with me and has my coffee ready by the time I've pulled on my pants. But I have to hurry. Brandon and his lunatic Gestapo. It'll be a massacre if they get involved. Last month Branden and his SWAT team calmed down a riot in Robinson Park. They barely even left the statues standing. If he goes in, those kids won't stand a chance. He'll push that lunatic over the edge…_

"We're not here to argue, Merkel," Brandon was shouting as Gordon pulled up on the scene. "We're here to clean things up. So unless that soft hearted Gordon shows up, we're-"

"Here I am," Gordon shouted back as he stepped out of his car and moved forward.

"Gordon," he groaned.

"Go find your own war, Branden," Gordon ordered. "Or I'll have you up on charges so fast-"

"Whatever," Branden threw his hands up and walked back to his team who all glared at Gordon as if he had just killed their own families.

"I'm a popular guy," Gordon remarked to Merkel as he caught a glance of the SWAT team.

"You wanna handle the negotiations?" Merkel asked.

"Yeah," Gordon responded, taking a deep breath. "Keep the blow horn though. I won't need it." Gordon walked past the line of men trying to decide how to best respond and waved his hands in the air until the frightened maniac in the window saw him.

Slowly, Gordon removed his gun from its holster and held it up above his head like a dead rat, and then dropped it to the floor.

_Please let him understand, _Gordon prayed, as he heard Branden cursing behind him. Taking one final breath of rain-filled air, he headed to the front door, knowing full-well that nobody watching could tell that his knees were wobbling.

_Barbara is probably watching on tv… Vicki Vale is here reporting, I'm sure Barbara is watching. She'll have a lot to say about this when it's all over and done. Asked a million times that I not pull any heroics. This is the kind of stuff that makes my daughter idolize cops. _

Slowly and filled with caution, Gordon made his way up the rickety and dust-covered stairway. The floorboards creaked far too loudly as he made his ascent, and he tensed his entire face as he felt a sneeze continually threatening to explode. A little girl was crying up ahead, through the half open doorway.

Zsasz peaked his head out, and when he saw Gordon only a few feet away he kicked the door open wide, revealing a young girl in his clutches with a knife held to her throat.

"So many zombies," the wide-eyed Zsasz spoke emptily. "So many zombies just waiting to be freed."

"I know, I know," Gordon said calmly as he approached.

"Stay back! Only I can! Only I can!"

"Of course, of course," he continued moving forward until Zsasz lashed out at him with the knife. Gordon reached out, grabbing the man's wrist and snapping it backwards. The little girl fell to the ground and hurried back into the room with the two other terrified children.

"No, no, no!" Zsasz wailed as Gordon kicked him onto the ground and began snapping the cuffs onto his hands behind his back. He still squirmed and wriggled, gnashing his teeth towards the knife as if he were trying to grab it with his mouth.

"Nope," Gordon muttered kicking the knife away. Zsasz reeled and snatched up a gun nearby on the floor with his feet, frantically fumbling for his toes to get a good grip on it. Gordon quickly slammed his foot down onto Zsasz's, who screamed, and then lifted him up off the ground and launched a solid punch to his head, knocking him out cold.

"It's alright," Gordon said, trying to regain his poise and smile at the children. "Come here, I'm one of the good guys. You're safe now. Who wants some candy?" He reached into his pocket producing a few pieces of candy, at which the children lit up and ran towards him.

Scooping up one of the little girls in one arm, and holding one of the others by the hand, he lead them down the stairs and back out into the open rain as officers flooded the building to take Zsasz into custody.

"Lieutenant Gordon is exiting the building with all three children in toe," Vicki Vale reported excitedly. "I repeat, he has successfully rescued all of the hostages. A happy ending to this hair-raising hostage situation, safely concluded thanks to the bravery of Gotham's new hero-cop, Lieutenant James Gordon!"

Gordon smiled as bulbs flashes and people cheered. He was surprised that even the terrified children were smiling. As officials ran in and took the children, wrapping them in trauma blankets, Gordon looked back to see officers escorting Zsasz to a van where he would no doubt be taken to the Arkham Wing at Blackgate Prison.

Letting out a final sigh, Gordon was glad it was all over. But he knew he still had a long talk ahead of him with Barbara.

"Lieutenant Gordon is exiting the building with all three children in toe. I repeat, he has successfully rescued all of the hostages. A happy ending to this hair-raising hostage situation, safely concluded thanks to the bravery of Gotham's new hero-cop, Lieutenant James Gordon!" the soundclip of Vicki Vale played over the radio for probably the tenth time that morning as Alfred drove Bruce to Wayne Tower, located towards the heart of Gotham City.

"Big news," Alfred said.

"Glad it was resolved," Bruce commented. "Gotham's Finest don't necessarily have a good track record for solving these sorts of situations."

"True, Sir," Alfred sighed. "At any rate, we are here. Would you like me to come in with you?"

"I'm not five, Alfred."

"Very well, Sir." Bruce stepped out of the car and, without looking back, headed forward through the massive doors to the Wayne Enterprises headquarters. Over the past few weeks he and Alfred had exchanged their shares so that he was now the 50% shareholder in the company, making him now have control over the company.

In spite of being the heir to the company, Bruce had actually never set foot inside of the building. It was enormous, with lavish marble floors and fountains in it's main lobby.

"Welcome, Mr. Wayne," a smiling, thin, olive-skinned secretary smiled as he entered.

"Hello," Bruce said, flashing a smile as best he could so that he could keep up a charade he had described to Alfred as a billionaire playboy. "I have a meeting with Mr. Fox?"

"He's expecting you," she replied. "His office is on the top floor. Board and Administrations. His secretary will meet you there. I can go with you, if you… you know… don't want to get lost."

_Another girl looking to get comfortable with Bruce Wayne. Annoying, but I'd better let it slide._

"I think I'll be alright," he said as he strolled toward the elevator. "But if I get lost, I'll come back for you. What was your name again?" The woman looked as if the hair on the back of her neck was standing on end at his request.

"M-m-my name is Helen… Helene! It's Helene."

"Well thank you Helene," Bruce waved as he got aboard. The elevator was just as elaborate as the lobby. Green velvety floors, golden paneling, and even the doors were carved out of beautiful oak with brilliant craftsmanship showing scenes of industrial artwork.

At the top, Bruce found himself in a hallway, outfitted with the same green carpeting and small water features lining the hall. On one end he saw a room with a large antique wooden table, obviously a meeting room for the board. On the other end were rows of offices, one of which was labeled _CEO._ Bruce approached the doorway, and raised his hand to knock on it.

"Excuse me do you have an appointment?" Bruce turned to see another secretary at a much smaller desk. She looked at him harshly at first, but as she recognized his face her expression turned to complete shock and horror.

"I do, actually," Bruce smiled. "Technically this will be _my_-"

"Oh Mr. Wayne!" she said frantically. "I'm so sorry, I didn't recognize you! Of course you can knock. Mr. Fox will be expecting you. I'm so sorry."

"It's alright," Bruce waved his hand, knocked, and then slowly opened the door and peered in. "Mr. Fox?"

Sitting at the desk ahead of him sat Luscious Fox. With dark skin and graying waves of hair, he had a warm and welcoming face. Slowly, his eyes rose from the paper on the table in front of him and locked onto Bruce, at which point a smile spread wide across his face.

"Bless my soul," he said in a deep, calm, soothing voice as if he were reciting poetry. "Bruce Wayne. Welcome." He stood up and outstretched his hands, clasping Bruce's with both of them and giving him a vigorous and friendly handshake.

"Mr. Fox," Bruce nodded. "It's good to be welcomed."

"Please, call me Lucius. It was only a matter of time, I suppose," Fox smiled.

"Until?"

"Until you came back, looking to see what this company was all about!" Fox grinned. "You know, you look a lot like your father. I always quite liked your father. Helped him finance that train project when you were only a little boy. I always quite liked your father."

"And he liked you, from what I can gather. I honestly don't remember much about his professional life."

"I wouldn't expect you to, Mr. Wayne," Fox responded, becoming very serious yet no less pleasant. "He never did much with the company. Preferred to work at the hospital. But if there's one thing I can tell you I knew with absolute certainty about Thomas Wayne, it was that he was first and foremost a family man. You and your mother, Martha, meant more to him than this company or his job as a doctor ever did. If you only remember him as your father, Mr. Wayne, well by my calculations I'd say you remember all you'd ever need to."

"Sounds like you knew him pretty well."

"Oh I'd like to think so. I always liked him… Well, Mr. Wayne, as I understand it you are now the official new majority owner of Wayne Enterprises. That'd be Mr. Pennyworth's contribution, I'd wager."

"It was," Bruce said.

"Well, that's fine. I'm assuming you'd like a rundown of things before you take over. Could take a while. And maybe, I was wondering, if you'd allow me to request a new position in the company for myself."

"New position?" Bruce asked. "What for? I want you right where you are." Fox looked surprised.

"You don't want to be the new CEO?"

"Not at all," Bruce smiled. "I want to be CEO in title. I'd like to be in on board meetings and help run things where I can, but like my father, I have different interests. I need an acting CEO and Luscious, I'd be honored if you stayed on board and be the Acting CEO and Vice President. Kind of a partnership, but with very little changes."

"Well, well, well," Lucius laughed after a minor pause. "Thank you, Mr. Wayne. That's quite an unexpected treat. I'd happily oblige that."

"Thank you."

"No, thank you… Well, with that out of the way… What can I do for you, Mr. Wayne?"

"What I do need, for now at least, is a quick rundown of everything going on and how it works. I'd like to, if nothing else, get to know the company my family built a little better."

"That's a lot to tell," Lucius said.

"Just keep it simple. Divisions, purposes, big projects. I can go over the details and reports later- oh, which reminds me, I'd like an office."

"We'll whip one up for you, certainly."

"Great. But yeah, just the basic stuff, if you wouldn't mind."

"Certainly," Lucius nodded as he sat down. "Take a seat, take a seat. Now let me think… where to begin?" He pulled out a few files and laid them out on his desk, and then continued, "If you don't mind the history lesson, Wayne Enterprises was founded by merchant ancestors of the Wayne family in the 17th century as a merchant house, although the company changed when the heir of Judge Solomon Wayne, Alan, utilized his father's wealth and established the Wayne Shipping company and also the Wayne Chemical company deeper in the city. So it was _officially_ established in the 19th century. By the beginning of the 21st century Wayne Enterprises reached a new annual income average of over $98.5 billion. Now, one of the world's top ten multinational conglomerates Wayne Industries continues to achieve excellence across a wide range of industry sectors and markets, employing some 170,000 people in 170 countries.

"Let's see… let's start with Wayne Foods. Wayne Foods is a little known subsidiary of Wayne Enterprises with its headquarters based in downtown Gotham City. The firm was started in 1872 by an Irish immigrant, Patrick Toole, under the name, Toole & Sons Food Merchants. The business was successful in importing Irish products that could be sold at a higher cost in the US economy. By 1905, there were five Toole & Sons stores throughout Gotham City. Patrick Toole died at the age of 72 in 1919, leaving the business to his eldest son, Thomas Toole. Thomas was keen to expand across the US; however, the outbreak of war in Europe in 1914 severely impacted trade lines from Ireland to Gotham. At the end of the war in 1918, Toole & Sons Food Merchants was near bankruptcy. Thomas, unable to carry on his father's legacy, committed suicide in 1922 at age 43. The second youngest Toole brother, Rory, took over the business and immediately set about selling all company assets in favor of entering liquidation. The business was bought in 1925 by the Wayne family, who wanted to preserve an important part of Gotham's retail history. The business returned to profit in less than a year, and by the end of the second World War, Toole & Sons stores controlled over 60% of all food retail across the city. This was achieved by diversifying the product range and opening up stock to new markets outside of Ireland and within the US. The company changed its name to Wayne Foods in 1956, and today Wayne Foods focuses on the high-end market and specialty goods. Although it no longer has the dominance across Gotham as it did in the 1950's, Wayne Foods continues to generate significant revenue for Wayne Enterprises."

"You know your stuff," Bruce said. "I'm sincerely impressed. I was expecting you to start throwing numbers and charts at me."

"Oh Mr. Wayne," Lucius said quietly. "I'm afraid you'll find me perhaps a bit of a different type of CEO. I started out in small trusts. Little charities and so on. I'm excellent at turning a profit but, you know, the reason isn't because I'm some sort of a math-wiz. I don't just see numbers and dollar signs. I see people. I see the application of what we are doing. Where we've been and where we are going. I joined on with your father when Gotham started taking an economic downturn. He wanted me to help him try to help people in need during those hard times. And the way I see it, those hard times aren't over. Wayne Enterprises is a business, but it's a business we use as an asset to help people. That's my motivation, and it's a vision I think that most of the board shares. At least since your father was around."

"I'm sure he'd be proud," Bruce said. "Please, continue."

"Very well. Wayne Shipping. Wayne Shipping owns dozens of freighters and handles three-and-a-half billion tons of freight each month. In the early 1980's, Wayne Shipping merged with the PAAL Ship Corporation, creating the world's largest commercial shipping operation for precious metals. The former PAAL CEO, Andreas Milanic, successfully floated Wayne Shipping on the New York Stock Exchange in 1981. The Wayne Family currently owns 57% of the company, with Milanic's second son, Dragoslav, owning 20% with the remaining 23% in public ownership. Despite a lack of investment in Wayne Shipping since the merger took place, the company still remains an important player in world ocean transportation, so we're rather proud of it.

"Then there's Wayne Yards, which is responsible for the building of a large number of naval warships, commercial and private ships, and is currently building a Nimitz class aircraft carrier. Wayne Steel and Wayne Yards facilities repair a large number of cruisers and destroyers, and also have contacts within the upper echelons of the Navy and the global maritime business.

"Wayne Industries is probably one of our more prominent factions. Wayne Industries is a research and development company used for industrial purposes. The company studies, researches, and develops cleaner, mechanical fission and fusion power plants; and also owns many factories and normal labor units. The company is heavily involved in the industrial circuit, developing industrial machinery such as manufacturing heavy engines, motors, pneumatic systems and large-scale systems. Additionally, Wayne Industries is also involved in cloth making and some plastics. Wayne Mining is also a part of Wayne Industries, along with the few power stations the company owns. Wayne Mining mostly mines and produces gold and some precious stones in Africa. Pretty exotic.

"Then we have Wayne Medical, a favorite of your father's, which is Wayne Biotech's sister company, but each has different fields of study and work. Wayne Medical handles most of the healthcare system in Gotham and also studies cancer and AIDS with Wayne Biotech. Wayne Medical is focused more on researching illnesses than treating them. It maintains and runs many hospitals in Gotham City and helps the Wayne Foundation with the orphanages. Biotech's concerned more with the treatments and application of what Medical learns.

"Wayne Electronics is a large consortium that manufactures portable music devices, video players, cameras, measuring devices, scanners, surveillance equipment, security and other electronics devices. Pretty much, you name it, and we probably have our fingers somewhere in it. Its other branches of business include information technology, wired and wireless networks, and space exploration systems and satellites. It also has contracts with the aerospace, nautical, and military industries.

" And then of course there's Wayne Entertainment which owns many arenas and stadiums in Gotham and has leased out the Sommerset Stadium a little further north. Furthermore, Wayne Entertainment has working partnerships with several modeling agencies and multimedia houses, and provides a large number of contacts and information. That about covers the major sectors of the business. But then there's probably one of my personal favorite sectors which is the more philanthropic stuff.

"The Wayne Foundation is the holding company for the Thomas Wayne Foundation and the Martha Wayne Foundation, which was started in memory of your parents. The Wayne Foundation funds scientific research and helps people with research by providing facilities and training. The foundation has its own building a few blocks south of here where I have a second office, and we can set one up for you too. Through the Wayne Foundation we address more social problems that encourage things like crime and assist victims of those problems, such as a number of viable charities, soup kitchens, shelters, and so on. But like I said, there's two main subgroups.

"The Thomas Wayne Foundation is a foundation for medicine and medical help. This foundation gives annual awards for medical breakthroughs and lifelong commitment, similar to the Nobel Foundation. The Thomas Wayne Foundation is also responsible for funding the Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic in Park Row, run by Leslie Thompkins. The foundation funds and runs dozens of other free clinics all over the city and in other trouble cities, such as Blüdhaven.

"The Martha Wayne Foundation is a patron and supporter of arts, families, education, and tolerance. The foundation supports and helps to run a number of orphanages and free schools, and provides teachers for those who have learning difficulties. Artists can apply for grants from the foundation to help support them in furthering the arts. The foundation sponsors companies like Family Finders Inc. which is an organization directed at finding lost people and uniting families. It's the one that generally is helping the everyday man on the street I'd say.

"And to be honest, Mr. Wayne, that's about as basic as I can get without getting into the finer details. I can provide you with a few files of things like annual revenue and specific projects and contracts going on within each sector."

"That would be great," Bruce said.

"Is there anything… specifically, that you have any questions about? Anything you might be interested in?"

"Actually there is," Bruce replied. "There was a division you didn't cover entirely that sort of caught my eye when I originally became majority shareholder."

"Oh?"

"Applied Sciences. It looked like research and development type stuff. Specialized fabrics and other materials, electromagnetic gyroscopic navigational satellite systems, antihemorrhagic agents, radiation stamping technology, rotor blades, metal composites... Which division does that fall under?" Fox scrunched his face but provided a fond smirk along with it.

"Well… Applied Sciences is sort of its own thing. A catch-all, if you will. On paper it looks like some sort of super-laboratory but, Mr. Wayne, it's really more of a… mausoleum. A better name for it would probably be _Un_applied Sciences."

"Unapplied? You mean, none of it is use?"

"All prototypes. Rejected ideas for full-scale production, all consolidated under one roof as a sort of archives, in case we needed to ever look back on anything for a reference point."

"And where is that one roof?"

"The Wayne Foundation building," Fox's grin grew wider. "It's in a sort of warehouse for storage under the actual building… you wouldn't want to go see it, would you?"

"You seem to want to."

"Well, for a mausoleum, it's a lot of fun. I'll grab my coat. You have a car?"

"Alfred should be waiting for me."

"Haven't seen Alfred in years! He stopped coming to the Christmas parties, after you left. Come on."

"He humiliated me in front of my men," Branden shouted in the office of Commissioner Loeb. "Absolutely humiliated me!"

"Nothing but trouble, that one," Loeb responded gruffly. "You do know I sympathize with you, don't you, Branden?" Loeb waved the latest edition of the newspaper in the air. On the front page was a picture of Gordon, smiling with the three children he had rescued earlier that day. The headline read in huge bold letters, Hero Cop.

"Yeah I know."

"Of course you do. And you know I'd like nothing better than to remove him from service. Detective Flass has made numerous suggestions along those lines. But we have to be patient now. Gordon has the press on his side, and I can't risk another firestorm with the press. Not now. We just have to be thankful that he hasn't done anything yet to cross the mayor, or Falcone. Right now he's a hero, so we'll let him stay in the limelight. Right where we can see him."

A few levels below, Gordon was using the shooting range. He was a great shot. Rarely used his gun if he could help it, but it could never hurt to keep his skills at their best. With the noise-cancelling headset over his ears, shooting was actually almost therapeutic for Gordon. Almost. He couldn't forget the horrors of that morning. This was only a momentary respite.

_Hero Cop,_ he thought to himself. _It's a nice sentiment, but far from the truth. I'm no hero. I'm just a guy. I never wanted to be in the spotlight. Just wanted to stay under the radar._

_ It kicks. The gun. And gunpowder burns my eyebrows and fills my nostrils with every shot. If that target were a man, his spine would shatter, and he'd feel his legs go dead as his heart exploded. It kicks again. The bullet would leave a clean round hole and I'd see the expression of horror in his eyes as it pushed half his brain through the back of his skull. I hate the gun. I hate the job. I keep practicing._

_ I keep seeing that man. Zsasz. And the children. What if that were my Barb? Or Barbara? And the baby. Oh the baby… I pray that he's strong. And smart enough to stay alive. How did I let this happen? How did I screw it up so badly!? To bring an innocent child to life in a city without hope… _

"There's no real staff here at Applied Sciences. We just have a board member, usually myself, oversee a product's transfer from wherever it originated, like Wayne Industries for example, to here were it gets catalogued and archived. Usually never see half this stuff again. Ah, here we are," Fox said as he pulled out a drawer. "Kevlar utility harness. Gas-powered magnetic grapple gun. The three hundred and fifty pound test monofilament. Pretty neat." Bruce was fixated by the trove of misfit inventions. They were the forgotten byproducts of years worth of Wayne Enterprise funding, filling a massive warehouse-like basement underneath the Wayne Foundation tower. It was a literal gallery of experimental technologies that were sitting completely unused and almost virtually off of the books.

"Most of these work, don't they?" Bruce asked. "I mean, why were they held back from production?"

"Most work. There are varying reasons as to why they never passed the prototype stage. Usually contractors backing out for not having enough funding."

"Interesting," Bruce responded. "A lot of failed army contracts, I've noticed."

"Our most faithful customer here in Applied Sciences. Take this." He opened a nearby crate which held some sort of full-body suit of armor.

"Foot infantry survival battle suit," Fox said. "Crummy name, but pretty impressive piece of hardware. Light-weight kevlar bi-weave. Extremely tactile."

"Breach resistant?"

"This sucker will stop a knife."

"Bulletproof?"

"Anything but a straight shot. But even that was due to be rectified once we developed past prototype."

"Why didn't they put it into production?"

"Army didn't think a soldier's life was worth three hundred grand. But, what's your interest in it, Mr. Wayne? All of this. Why does it catch your eye?" In truth, while Alfred had suggested they use the company as a front to protect Bruce's identity, Bruce truly wanted to utilize its resources for his mission. Applied Sciences offered the perfect reservoir of gadgets and gear for his use.

"I wanna borrow it," he said. "For, uh, spelunking."

"Spelunking?"

"Yeah, you know, cave diving."

"Cave diving… You expecting to run into much gunfire in these caves?"

"Look, I'd rather the board, or anyone, didn't really know about me borrowing..."

"Mr. Wayne, the way I see it, all this stuff is yours anyway." Bruce nodded, and then noted a massive spool of black textile materials.

"What's that?"

"Oh that's pretty cool. It's called memory cloth, a shape-memory that has the ability to return from a deformed state to another shape when induced by an external stimulus. So right now, it's regularly flexible. But, you put a current through it and the molecules realign; it becomes rigid.

"What kind of shapes can you make?"

"It can be tailored to fit any structure based on a rigid skeleton."

"Too expensive for the Army?"

"Eh, I don't think they tried to market it to the billionaire-spelunking crowd." Fox shot Bruce an uneasy look.

"Look, Lucius-"

"Yes, sir?"

"If you're uncomfortable-"

"Mr. Wayne, if you don't want to tell me exactly what you're doing, when I'm asked, I don't have to lie. But don't think of me as an idiot. And like I said, the way I see it, all of this stuff is yours anyway… I always liked your father."

"Fair enough." Bruce smiled. "Well I'm gonna find something to do with this stuff. Consolidate it, put it to some use."

"It's all yours," Fox said. "Anything else I can show you?"

"Lets head back upstairs," Bruce said. "I think I've seen enough here." They returned to the massive industrial elevator that took them back to the main floor.

"You think this'll be a confortable fit?" Fox asked as they stepped out into the Wayne Foundation lobby.

"Honestly, Lucius, only if it will be for you. I have no intentions to step on your toes or change everything about this company. I just…"

"You want to use it to change things in this world," Fox said. "Just like me."

"I do," Bruce said, a twinge of guilt in his voice. "But the thing is… Fox, the ways I want to do things _are_ different from what you would do."

"And I really don't care, Bruce. When your father was here he nearly bankrupt this company trying to create real social change. And the last time we accomplished any of that, honestly, ended shortly after he died. I'm not here to make money Bruce, or be a business. I'm here to help the world. And it's time we got back on track."

"Bruce Wayne?!" a voice excitedly exclaimed from elsewhere in the lobby. Bruce and Fox turned to see a man approaching them. He looked to be about Fox's age, sporting a thick mustache and wearing a brightly colored shirt and tie with rolled up sleeves.

"Ah, Bruce," Lucius said. "This is Norman Maddison. He runs a lot of the coordination between the Wayne Foundation and other smaller charities. Excellent philanthropist."

"Ah," Bruce said, extending his hand which Norman then grabbed so enthusiastically that he might have torn it clean off.

"Bruce Wayne," Norman chuckled. "Pleasure to meet you! When I heard you were coming back to Gotham I got so excited at the prospect that you might come back and work here at Wayne Enterprises. The billionaire orphan- you beat the odds! You inspire people, you know?" Bruce really hated being called that. It was a moniker that the tabloids at the time of his parent's murder had bestowed upon him, and he was not at all pleased with it.

"Glad to be here," he feigned.

"Bruce, we are throwing a charity ball this weekend at the Royal Towers Hotel. We absolutely _need_ you to be present. It's for a good cause Bruce! What do you say?"

_This was absolutely the sort of thing I'd hoped to avoid,_ Bruce groaned within himself. _But I can't resist… I need to maintain this social cover._

"Certainly," Bruce said. "Why don't you send a memo with all the details to my secretary."

"You have a secretary already?"

"Same one as Fox's," Bruce said, trying his best to hurry Norman off on his way.

"Excellent, I will do that. Welcome back to your Empire, Bruce!" And with that Norman took off, strutting as though he had just won the lottery.

"That's Norman for ya," Fox said. "Always enthusiastic about parties with the rich and famous. He means well, really a good man at heart, just has a different set of priorities from myself I think."

"Me too, I think," Bruce said. "Big social events aren't really in my set of interests."

"I'm beginning to find _most _of what the paper had lead me to believe about your set of interests wasn't entirely true, Mr. Wayne. Though you seem to want everyone to believe it is… I'm excited to see what lies ahead in our future. I really liked your father. And so far, I'd say I really like _you_ as well."

"Thank you."

"Now," Fox said. "Let me see what we can do about getting you in charge of the Applied Sciences department."


	4. Chapter 4: I'm Batman

"Ok, give it a try," Bruce said as he finished nailing down one last line of cabling. Alfred stared up at Bruce who was hanging from a stalactite of the cave under the Wayne ground, and then turned to flip the switch on the generator to his side. It hummed and buzzed and suddenly a row of lights Bruce had installed lit up.

"Charming," Alfred said as he gazed up at the bats which had seemed to be agitated by the lights. "Well, at least you'll have company. What's that over there?" Alfred asked as he pointed to a section of the cave which had beams of metal and columns of bricks.

"That's where I want to wire the power from," Bruce said. "It's an extremely low foundation on the South East wing. My parents told me that my great-great-grandfather had been involved in the Underground Railroad, secretly transporting enslaved people to the north. I'm hoping there's some sort of entrance over there that leads from here to the house. If not, I'll build one, but it would be nice to just upgrade an old one."

"Looks like the rigging is in place for an old service elevator of some sort," Alfred said. Bruce agreed and then headed back to the piles of crates that they had lowered into the cave. Excitedly he began opening them and pulling out their contents which mostly consisted of various things he had already taken from Applied Sciences, as well as various charts, notes, books, and so on.

"Alfred, did you finish my costume?"

"Just this morning, Master Bruce," Alfred said as he began pulling a grey full body suit out of a box. "It's extremely mobile, but I doubt it will keep you very safe from harm."

"Just a prototype Alfred," Bruce said. "I've got some Kevlar body armor in one of these boxes that we can modify in the next few days. Ultimately I'd like to build something much more custom from Kevlar thread and carbon nanotube fibers. We could put sensors in it and tailor it to very specifically work for my body. But that's another project for later. Might be a good idea to get a heavy-armored version in the works too, for situations that might involve a lot of shrapnel and so on." He walked over and looked at the suit. It was grey and black, like a suit worn by speed skaters, only with flack jacket pieces inserted in the chest area. Bruce stared at it, and then took it over to a backpack he had brought with him and began producing a few items from it.

"What's all this?" Alfred asked.

"Combat boots," Bruce said. "For Arctic terrains so they'll be water resistant and durable. We're going to eventually need to customize the footwear for a few things. I'd like them to carry a few pieces of my arsenal, like a blow gun or lock pick. I need it to still follow the basic design of any tactical boots, but they should be made from lightweight rubbers and be much more flexible to allow for full extension when kicking. There's a design in the Applied Sciences warehouse with a slingshot ankle reinforcement system that acts as both armor and as reinforcement for the ankle joint when kicking or landing from high distances. The bottom's can have a flexible split sole design- Alfred, are you taking notes? I already have most of this written down in one of these notebooks. Anyway, we can come up with a unique texture design on the souls for a variety of surfaces. These boots have steel toes, which we should keep. Much more effective when on the offensive.

"Then here are some gauntlets and arm bracers I picked up during my travels. The attachable gloves have been modified with a few things Applied Sciences had laying around. The gloves have been specially treated to be both shock-proof as well as radiation-resistant. I'm thinking we should also work on variations to the design that incorporate fingertip blades, and also have joint armor-reinforcement in the glove, from the wrists and knuckles to the fingers. The gauntlet has blades on it, in the style of some traditional ninja arts. I also added a few little places for storing other tiny arsenal pieces. Oh, there are electrodes in the fingertips here, which are used to send out electrical currents so I can control the structure of the cape. Did you finish the cape?"

"With the suit, Sir," Alfred nodded. "Scalloped bottom edge made to your specifications."

"Excellent," Bruce smiled. "When I run electricity through the glove to the cape, it should open up like a pair of bat wings that can double as both an intimidation tactic but also as a sort of glider apparatus. This is good stuff.

"Oh and here's the utility harness. It can carry the rest of my arsenal. Smoke pellets and stuff like that. It also will carry the grapple-gun and has an attachment for the cables for that. I'm going to look into finding an electronic security system so that it can't be removed from my body by anyone but me, but for now it will do.

"And last but not least, these." He held out a stack of tiny metallic objects with razor edges, cut into the shape of little bats.

"Bat-a-rangs?" Alfred mused.

"Shurikens," Bruce said. "Variants of the Chinese throwing star. Sort of a signature weapon. A personal touch. These ones are fairly crude but we can come up with a whole line of variations. Some with gyroscopes inside that can keep them spinning, maybe even have some remote control involved. I don't know yet. There's a lot of possibilities. But I needed a special weapon, and I know how to use these. Precise, painful, but nonlethal. I won't use guns. I won't take lives. I won't cross over that line like they do. But I won't hold back either… And how about the cowl? Can I see the cowl?"

"Ah, right here, Sir," Alfred said, handing Bruce the cape made of memory cloth, and an attachable cowl made of fabrics he had stretched over a modified helmet. All black, and with a mask attached, cowl covered his entire face except for his mouth and jaw. On the sides there were two points, appearing like horns or ears. Alfred couldn't believe that the boy he had raised was now a grown man asking him to fabricate giant bat costumes. It all sounded so strange, but Bruce had said it was to be something more than mere human. To strike fear into the hearts of criminals.

"A little silly looking up close," Bruce said. "But it will do for now. I'm not sure where I put the modified designs, but when you find them lets go over them together, ok?"

"Very well, Sir."

"Ok," Bruce said as he set up an easel displaying a large chart he had drawn out. "This will have to do until we can get come computers down here. Paper notebooks and charts. Alfred, this is the basic flow of corruption in Gotham. Crime families. Mobs. People and… industries… that are continuing to foster crime in this city."

"It's a pyramid," Alfred said, looking over the chart.

"In a way," Bruce said. "Obviously on the bottom there are a bunch of street gangs and random thugs. Gotham had a huge upsurge in crime during the depression. Create enough hunger and desperation, and everyone becomes a criminal. Not to mention the almost nonexistent middle class in Gotham. Either way, we have a lot of crime, and most of the punks on the street come from the lower class. But then we have a few mob families, upper echelon people, who sort of control what is going on down below. Either by supplying weapons, hiring our muscle, moving illegal money, shipping drugs… you name it. At the bottom, we have the Sionis Crime Family."

"Sionis?" Alfred said. "As in, Sionis Steel Mills?"

"Yes. The Sionis family made their name with the Sionis Steel Mill in the industrial sector of Gotham. They also own, from what I could gather at a recent board meeting at Wayne Enterprises, a fair share of stock in Janus Cosmetics."

"Didn't you know their son?" Alfred asked. "They only live on the other side of the Palisades."

"Roman Sionis. No. He's my age, but I never really knew him. Tommy Elliot did though. They were friends. Either way, Sionis has mob ties, though not very deep. Mostly runs money laundering schemes and corporate buyouts for the more prolific crime families. Kind of a lackey in the business. Probably came into it fairly recently. Maybe borrowed money from someone and decided to join up with his creditors once he'd paid them off."

"It wouldn't surprise me, Sir. The Sionis family has been known to be rather self obsessed and preoccupied with wealth and status. I recall tale that when young Roman was born, a doctor actually dropped the newborn infant but the parents refused to press charges for fear of being caught in a common lawsuit. Your father had told me that around the time of your own birth."

"Gossip Alfred," Bruce said. "Ultimately unimportant. They're low on the criminal food chain. Bottom tier. On the tier above them, however, are three crime families. The Sabatino Crime Family, the Riley Crime Family, and the Odessa Crime Family. Italian, Irish, and Ukrainian. The Sabatinos were the first crime family in Gotham, followed by the Rileys who are arms dealers mostly. They had to come to peace with each other when the other families started moving in during the depression. Competition got too thick. They all run the typical criminal activities you'd expect. But ultimately they are grunts in the grand scheme of things.

It's the tier above them- the second tier –that really has a lot of influence. The Galante Family are Italians. They have a strict hold over most of Gotham's East End with the exception of the Amusement Mile area. Then we have the Maroni Family, also Italian. Tough guy, Maroni. Probably the second most powerful man in Gotham right now. Pretty stereotypical mobster. But unfortunately for him, his family is constantly scrapping with the Dimitrov Family, the final piece of the second tier. Yuri Dimitrov runs them. They usually just call him The Russian. I've actually seen him in person. Sleazy. Prostitutes and drugs look like his main racket."

"Master Bruce, how did you come by all this information?"

"These men are all pretty well-known, Alfred. But the hierarchy was something I had to get from all those reconnaissance missions over the past week or two."

"All those nights dressed as a homeless man?"

"Hey," Bruce scowled. "_Matches Malone_ is a con artist. He's not homeless."

"Bloody well dresses like it."

"Anyway, those are all the main families, and they all operate under the permission of the worst of the worst. The man who runs Gotham and has since the time of the economic downturn."

"Carmine Falcone."

"Correct. They call him The Roman. It's not exactly a unified crime family, but Falcone is the undisputed Mob chieftain here. His people equal all the other families combined, by my estimates. And he makes most of them pay him tribute. Ruthless, cunning, an extremely wealthy. More wealthy than me even. And with far more connection. He virtually runs the city with the entire city council, GCPD, and the mayor all on his payroll. He more or less owns all of he politicians, judges, and lawyers. Falcone floods the streets with crime and drugs, preying on the desperate every single day. Everyone knows who he is and where to find him, but as long as he keeps the bad people rich and the good people scared no one will touch him. And he's pretty careful to cover his tracks. Any evidence connecting him to criminal activity gets wiped away or paid off pretty fast."

"You know," Alfred said. "Carmine Falcone was a friend of your father's."

"I recall," Bruce said somberly. "But he's no friend of mine."

"What's this?" Alfred asked, pointing to a corner of the chart where a name was written that didn't have any lines drawn connecting it to any of the other crime families. "Penguin?"

"Not entirely sure yet," Bruce said. "It looks like there's only one major operation which openly opposes The Roman Empire that Falcone runs. A crime lord who calls himself The Penguin. From what I can tell they primarily deal heavy arms, and are rapidly encroaching on the Odessa's niche. Pretty gutsy to take on the mob. Not even the cops will do it. But as far as I can tell, Penguin is an outlier. It's not a faction that plays a major roll in things, so they can wait."

"Well then what do you intent on doing with this information?"

"I'm going to strike this at the head. Carmine Falcone.

"What about organizations that could be possible allies in your plight, Master Bruce? Police officers and so forth."

"The police are crooked," Bruce said. "Weren't you listening? Gillian Loeb is a personal friend and employee of Faclone. And the guy who heads the SWAT team is as much a thug as any drug dealer… Branden is his name, I think."

"But certainly there are _some_ civil servants you could rely on? This Hero Cop for example. Lieutenant James Gordon from Chicago. How about him?"

"No thank you, Alfred. I work alone."

"Do I not count for anything?"

"You know what I mean, Alfred."

"Oh, Master Wayne, the blueprints for your cowl," Alfred pulled out a sheet of paper showing designs for new cowl, reinforced like a helmet, with the same bat ears and opening for a mouth. The eyes were molded into a permanent scowl, making for a particularly imposing appearance.

"Now, we'd already decided to order the main part of the cowl from Singapore," Alfred said.

"Via dummy corporation," Bruce said.

"Indeed. But I put something thought into this, Master Wayne, and figured, quite separately, we could place an order to a Chinese company for these." He ran his finger over the pointed ears.

"Put it together ourselves."

"Precisely," Alfred said. "I suspect they'll have to be large order to avoid suspicion."

"How large?"

"Say, ten thousand."

"Well at least we'll have spares."

"Indeed."

"In addition to concealing my features and contributing to the imposing appearance," Bruce explained. "We should outfit it to serve a few other purposes. Once I get the mechanism figured out for the security on the utility harness, which I think I'll turn into more of a belt, the cowl can have similar defense mechanisms. Electric shock or stun gas in order to prevent unauthorized removal. That sort of thing. I'd also like to put lenses in the eyes, mirrored with an opaque white surface. Kinda like I'm absent of pupils. Just two white eyes in the dark."

"Lenses? Master Wayne, this sounds more and more ridiculous as you go on."

"No Alfred, this is a good idea," Bruce shot back. "The cowl contains shifting lenses that identify suspect's identities, as well as their weak points through medical records or by reading out quick scans, while simultaneously avoiding the possibility of eye identification. The lenses can have special visions, like infrared sensors, night vision, and ultraviolet vision. We could even link it wirelessly to a computer so that it could help identify clues at crime scenes and other forensics data. It could be really useful. Just need to get Wayne Tech a contract to produce something similar, and we can modify it ourselves.

"As for the ears, one of them will carry a high-gain antenna for an internal comm-link on the left side of the cowl, allowing us to stay in contact with each other. The comm-link can also scan police radios and other communication frequencies. It also carries an inertial navigation unit to keep me in balance, as well as to link the cowl up with a global positioning system.

"The cowl's Kevlar panels will provide a level of protection for my head against firearms. The front of the skull and the sides of the temples should also have small armor inserts to increase the effectiveness of skull strikes and protect from concussive blows."

"You're preparing yourself for an entire war," Alfred said. "What sort of situations are you expecting to get yourself into? Do you have any idea how much all of this will cost?"

"A lot," Bruce said. "But I'm going up against The Roman. Falcone has more men, connections, hiding places, and money than I do. But I can be better equipped. I need every advantage. Now, what time is it?"

"Ten minutes passed nine," Alfred responded.

"Then it's time." Bruce said as he set out what gear he had and carefully put it all on as best he could. The dark body suit, the gloves, gauntlets, boots, and harness.

"Master Bruce," Alfred said. "One more suggestion, if I might. I suggest you find the time to see Leslie Thompkins at some point. She did try her best to fill in for your mother, you know." Bruce ignored the comment. Leslie was a nice woman, but she had always seemed to rub him the wrong way. Maybe it was her endlessly carefree outlook on life, or the philosophies she had tried to instill on him when he was younger. Whatever the reason, the two of them shared a mutual respect, but did not seem to often be on good terms with one another.

Methodically, he wrapped the cape around his body, letting it drape down to the floor. Without saying a word or turning his head, he reached over and picked up the crude cowl that Alfred had made for him.

Alfred watched Bruce, whose back was turned toward him, and felt endless worry welling up in his stomach. And slowly, Bruce slipped the cowl over his head, and turned.

"Oh my-" Alfred exclaimed nearly silently under his breath. There before him stood a being he barely recognized. Tall, large, and black, before him stood the shape of a demonic bat, glaring at him in the darkness.

Alfred had known two Bruce Wayne's in the recent months. A public persona that acted as normal as anybody else, smiling and acting as carefree as he possibly could. And then the private Bruce Wayne, reserved, thoughtful, quiet, and troubled. But this was someone else entirely. It was as if for the first time every Bruce had stripped every one of his walls down and was showing off all of his pain, loneliness, and anger in plain sight. He was literally wearing it all in the open. Even the way he carried himself was different. For the first time since that night his parents died, Bruce was being who he felt he was. He was being true to how he felt. And without a word, he pushed his way beyond Alfred and disappeared in the darkness of the cave.

_Perhaps this is going to work after all,_ Alfred thought to himself. _Oh Bruce, what have you become?_

The room was lit by the warm, red glow of candles. Soft music played, and Gordon groaned on the floor. He was shirtless, and felt pain shooting through his back and shoulders. But for once, it was a good pain. He laid on his stomach across the floor, with his wife kneeling overhead, massaging his back as best she could.

"You could use a jackhammer on this back Jim," she said. "How's it feeling?"

"It feel great," he responded, trying his best to sound grateful.

_It's the first night off I've really been able to enjoy since I got to Gotham, _Gordon thought. _It's been pretty good for the most part. My daughter is off in her room with strict orders to leave us alone for our date tonight. Barbara made lemon chicken. A special treat for the two of us. And her fingers kneading into my shoulders feels absolutely heavenly. The soft music playing was her idea, but hey, it works._

"Dad!" Barb's voice called as she peaked into the dark room. "Dad, I saw something weird."

"Barb, we told you not to bother us unless it's important," Gordon said.

"I know, but I just saw a monster or something out the window. Honest!"

"Barb."

"Honest! It was a giant bat or something! Just flew across a roof out my window and jumped down into an alleyway. Honest!"

"Well that's great, but tonight's out date night so you have to leave us alone unless it's an emergency, ok?"

"Ugh, ok whatever," Barb groaned. "Goodnight." Gordon could only smile. He liked being a father. And he liked that his daughter looked up to him so much. Even when the "emergency" was a giant bat, it was nice to feel wanted.

The phone rang out.

"Jim, you said you'd unplug it," Barbara grumbled.

"Honey I forgot," Gordon responded. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry, I'll get it," she muttered as she stood up and answered the line. "hello?... Yes Sergeant… Maybe you should call the Gotham zoo… Ok… All right, All right. I'll get him." She turned and looked disappointingly at her husband laying on the floor.

_That look_, Gordon thought to himself. _I hate that look. Why does she have to do that? She knows I don't choose to be interrupted at home. It's not my fault._

"It's Merkel," she said. "Says he needs to talk to you. Says it's something about a giant bat. Don't worry, the chicken will keep…"

The three punks looked up in horror. One screamed, one let his jaw hang open in awe, and the last one dropped the speakers he was carrying. All three of them jumped back an inch or two.

The three thieves stood on a fire escape landing, carrying a load of electronics in their arms when he found them. Bruce was pleased at how frightened they were upon seeing him.

_The costume works better than I thought. Better than Alfred thought too._ _They freeze, stare, and are giving me all the time in the world._

He stepped off the edge of the rooftop above, and with his cape flowing out like two demonic wings, he slammed down onto the fire escape in their midst. And as he landed and let out a growl, suddenly everything went wrong. The guy to his left screamed out for help. On the right, one of them leaned into a fighting position, ready to take Bruce on. But it was the last guy that was the problem. Bruce had pegged him from the roof as being the strongest of the bunch, but he hadn't counted on him being the most frightened. He spat out a few frantic curses, stumbled backwards, and was falling over the railing backwards by the time Bruce had landed among them.

Quickly, in one fluid motion from the crouch he had landed in, Bruce swung up, reaching over the railing, and grabbed the thief by the leg with his right arm, bracing himself against the railing with his left. The thug screamed, dangling upside down from his leg. It was a twelve-story drop at least, and Bruce couldn't help but notice how young he was.

_Fifteen. He can't be a year older than fifteen. Just a child._

Suddenly, the one who had been ready to fight took his shot and kicked Bruce on the back of the head. His helmet took a lot of the blow, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

_Idiot. He's gonna make me drop his friend. Either he doesn't know or he doesn't care. This has gone all wrong._

Suddenly Bruce felt the world spin around him as the third boy lifted up the television they had been stealing and slammed it down onto Bruce's back. He heard it crack and felt gravity pull it down over his side. As his vision blurred back into focus he could see it falling past the boy he held in his hand and go tumbling down to the street below.

_Held on_, Bruce thought as he confirmed that he had retained his grip the entire time. Quickly he kicked back into the chest of the one who had landed the television on his head. He groaned and Bruce felt a few of his ribs break with the blow. Then he shifted he weigh back, anchoring himself on the platform, and reached back to grab the boy who was still trying to kick him. He grabbed, and then yanked the boy down, bashing his head on a metal railing. Sighing as the boy stayed down, Bruce painfully pulled the dangling boy back up onto the landing and dropped him flat. He must've blacked out sometime while handing upside down.

_Good thing he'd blacked out. If he'd kept thrashing I don't know that I could have held on. Ugh. Lucky. Lucky amateur. This could have been a disaster. Now none of them can offer any information. No matter, I have a few other leads to check tonight._

He'd spent the night going from user, to dealer, to supplier, trying to get to the root of a drug shipment. They'd lead him to these punks, but there were others to hit before the night was through.

Bruce lay in his bed, curled up in the blankets like a child. Alfred had let him sleep as long as he deemed possible, but with the afternoon turning to evening, he didn't think he could let it go much further. He walked over to the large windows of the room, and threw the curtains open. As light strewn in from outside to Bruce's bed, he flinched and complained.

"Bats are nocturnal!"

"Bats may be," Alfred said. "But even for billionaire playboys, three o clock in the afternoon is pushing it. The price for living a double life, I fear. Your theatrics last night made quite an impression." He held a newspaper in his hand, the sight of which caused Bruce to leap out of bed and snatch it from the butlers hand.

_DOZENS HOSPITALIZED BY THE BAT-MAN_, the front page read in large bold lettering.

"Batman," Bruce smiled. "This is a good start. This is a good start."

"Is it, Master Wayne? It says that this bat-man sent dozens to the hospital, and who knows how many that leaves who hadn't reported it."

"There were only thirty in all."

"Thirty in one night? Bruce, I knew you meant to go around like some masked pulp detective, but I hadn't suspected you intended to bludgeon the entire city out of its wits!"

"Yeah, Alfred? What would you have me do? I got plenty of information. This isn't just a night of me running around and beating people. I'm doing detective work, but I also have to send a message. They need to know, Gotham is no longer a safe haven for criminals. Nobody else will have to watch their parents get shot."

"Very well, then what sort of work did you do beyond leaving trails of human wreckage in your wake?"

"I'm getting leads, trying to link them to Falcone. If we can link Falcone to a ring of crime, we can start getting him prosecuted."

"You said nobody would touch him."

"I have leverage," Bruce muttered.

"Leverage? What? You'll threaten a judge?"

"No, I collected some dirt on some of them a while ago. I've got photos down in the caves of Judge Faden out with his mistress."

"Bruce, this is out of control-"

"Alfred, how? I'm not a child! Fox at the company is letting me do this."

"He doesn't know what he's facilitating!"

"Not yet, but he will. When the time's right."

"And when will that be?"

"I don't know, Alfred! But soon! Look, I'm not afraid of what I am doing. I'm not ashamed. I'm serious. This proves it! One night out there as the bat and I've made the main headline in the paper. Gotham needs something like this, and it's needed it for a very long time. I spent _years_ preparing for this, Alfred. Years. Doctor's spend less time studying. Cops and soldiers spend less time training. And you are both a cop and a soldier. Now I am qualified to do this." He stared at Alfred in the way he had since he was a boy.

"You always were remarkably bright in a debate," Alfred said. "But you often came home with your share of blacked eyes. You're covered in bruises." Bruce looked down at his arms and chest, and Alfred was right.

"Part of the job, I guess," he shrugged as he pulled himself out of bed and immediately launched into a routine of pushups.

"Well, if those are to be the first of many injuries to come it would be wise to find a suitable excuse."

"Polo or something."

"Do you know how to play Polo? Would you have comrades to play with who would vouch for you? Strange injuries, a nonexistent social life. These things beg to question as to what exactly does Bruce Wayne do with all his time and his money."

"What does someone like me do?"

"I don't know. Drive sport cars? Date movie stars? Buy things that aren't for sale?"

"I'm going to a charity ball tonight at the Royal Hotel," Bruce said. "An employee, Norman Madison, has invited me."

"There you are," Alfred said. "That will be a good start. And who knows, Master Wayne? I've said it before. You start pretending to have fun, and maybe you'll even have a little by accident."

"Maybe," Bruce said. "But I won't be there all night. Found out about a shipment of drugs coming in tonight. I need to be there."

"Bruce, how great to see you again," Norman said as Bruce entered the grand ballroom of the Royal Hotel. Paparazzi clamored outside for a shot of what was going on beyond the doorway, but Bruce thought it was hardly anything worth photographing. A massive spread of food, and a bunch of elites standing around gossiping to a serenade of string violins. Ultimately pretty dull.

"What is tonight's event for?" Bruce asked.

"We're raising money for children in Africa," Norman said. "The proceeds will go toward building schools and buying supplies and so forth."

"Do we make many proceeds with a spread like that?" Bruce said, nodding towards the enormous table of food. Norman stuttered, looking as if that were the last thing he had expected Bruce Wayne to say.

"Well, you know, Bruce, you have to spend money to make money."

"Certainly," Bruce said. "I was just curious as to how much we actually will make compared to what is spent."

"Well… I will tell you when it's over," Norman grinned awkwardly. "Now if you'll excuse me." He quickly shuffled off, leaving Bruce standing awkwardly in the throng of wealthy guests.

_Great. The only guy here that I know has just run off. _It wasn't as if he'd be left alone though. Bruce Wayne was amongst the most famous members of the rich and famous in all of America. As Normal disappeared further and further from view, Bruce found himself more and more swarmed by the partygoers.

_Got to get out of here._

Then he heard it. From across the room there were was a man arguing with a server. He was shouting rather indignantly. And he was with a woman.

"Alex, there's no need for that," the woman said.

"Relax, Julie. Don't get yourself all worked up."

"You treated that waitress like she was subhuman."

"You're saying she isn't? Lousy slut probably gets off work and turns tricks in the back of some minivan."

"Give it a rest. Your brain's obvious bent out of shape due to lack of use. I'd like to go home."

"You little shrew! You think I'd leave here, in front of everyone, over your concern for some servant? I should-" He was cut off as Bruce grabbed him firmly on the shoulder.

"You should be on your way, my friend," Bruce spoke gruffly. "While you're able to still walk." Alex shook his shoulder free of Bruce's grip and began walking a way.

"And don't ever call me again, you creep," Julie shouted at him.

"I wouldn't hold your breath waiting, sweetheart," he called back. "Bleeding-heart witch! And you keep your hands to yourself, mate. Or I'll call the cops." Bruce sighed as Alex walked away, letting himself relax.

"Sorry about that, miss," he said. "I hope I didn't intrude."

"Are you kidding? That guy was a bad mistake I don't intend on repeating."

"Glad to hear it. My name is-"

"Oh I know who you are, Mr. Wayne. Everyone knows who you are."

"Well it looks like we're on uneven terms, then. You are?"

"Julie Madison," she said, holding out her hand.

"Madison? Any relation to Norman Madison?"

"There is, yes. He's, uh, my father. Do you know him well?"

"Hardly," Bruce laughed. "Met him once and he about twisted my arm off to get me to come to this thing."

"Not your scene?"

"Oh, it's very much my scene," Bruce lied. "Just haven't really met anyone I've clicked with so far."

"Oh."

"So, tell me, Julie, what uh… what do you do?"

"You've never seen me?" Bruce looked confused. "I'm… I'm a model, actually. Pretty prominent. Or at least, I thought I was."

"No, I'm sure you are," Bruce said. "I've been abroad for a long time, and I guess a lot of the world just sort of… passed by."

"Ever make it as far as Africa?"

"Sure. Even further."

"Oh wow," Julie said. "My mother spent _years_ in Africa. I think she visited every country there. Lots of charity and social work. That's why my dad has a particular eye for these events that benefit causes in Africa."

"Oh," Bruce said. "Well… is she here tonight, or?"

"No, no, mother passed. A long time ago. It's kind of in her memory I suppose."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize-"

"It's really fine. It was a long time ago and I'm pretty much at peace with it all… You know, Bruce, you're not quite as socially proficient as I might have guessed. You seem nervous."

"Just caught off guard," Bruce said. "The whole thing with your boyfriend."

"Ex. But yeah, ok."

"So, you like modeling then?"

"No not really." Again, Bruce looked entirely caught off guard. "I prefer law, actually. I'm a law student. Modeling is something I got into in high school. What high schooler doesn't want to be supermodel? So I still do it to pay for school and my life, but being a District Attorney is sort of the dream these days."

"District Attorney? I sure read you wrong."

"Ha, what'd you think I was? Just some empty headed socialite? Don't answer that. I know, the chances of being a DA are probably pretty slim… and who would vote for me? Daughter of one of Gotham's wealthy, and a supermodel."

"Do you mind my asking, why a DA?"

"Big topic."

"No, I'm interested. I'll listen."

"It's just this city. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of seeing the desperation… People talk about the depression as if it's history, and it's not. This city is rotting. Things are worse than ever here, and every day there are men like Carmine Falcone, or Salvatore Maroni who fill our streets with more and more garbage- it just makes me sick. I think it's time for somebody to do something about it. And if I can help… well, I guess I'd like to."

"You sound opinionated."

"I am."

"Ah, Bruce," Norman returned, looking much less nervous. "I see you met my daughter. Great girl. Her name is Julie."

"So I've heard," Bruce responded.

"Er… right," Norman stuttered. "Well, can I offer you two a drink? Julie, where's uh… Allan?"

"Alex. And he left. I don't think I'll be seeing him anymore."

"Wait what?" Norman said. "Did something happen? Are you ok?"

"No, dad, I'm fine. Don't worry." Norman snorted.

"Well ok. Drinks?" Bruce and Julie both nodded. Norman snapped his fingers toward a waitress who quickly came over with three cocktails on a tray. Norman and Julie both started into theirs and while Bruce acted like he was occasionally sipping from it, he took special care not to consume any. He had to be operating at full capacity for his later endeavors.

"So what about this bat guy?" Norman scoffed. "You heard of him, Julie?"

"I have."

"And?"

"I think the bat-man is just one good citizen who's been pushed too far by the corruption in this city."

"Oh, and you approve?" Norman laughed.

"He's done something the police have never done."

"You can't take the law into your own hands."

"At least he's getting something done."

"Bruce, help me out here?"

"Well…" Bruce said, trying to look like he found the whole situation entirely ridiculous. "I mean, a guy who dresses up like a bat… clearly has issues."

"But he's made an impact. People are talking, and you have to think that some of the criminal element on the streets is a little frightened now. Might think twice about going out and robbing, or selling drugs, or whatever tonight."

"And now the cops want to bring _him_ in," Norman waved his hands. "What does that tell you?"

"They're jealous. I think the bat-man deserves a medal."

"And a straight jacket to pin it on," Bruce laughed. "All the same, I really have to get going. Lovely party, Norman."

"Oh so soon?" Norman whined.

"Bruce," Julie said.

"Yes?"

"Don't hesitate to call sometime," she smiled, winked, and walked away.

"My daughter," Norman shook his head.

"She's an intelligent young lady," Bruce said. "Goodnight Mr. Madison."

"Night, Bruce." Bruce, however, was not going to go to bed. The night was still young, and there was work to be done.

At the Gotham Shipping yard, a gang of thugs were unloading crates upon crates of unmarked cargo.

"Excuse me," Detective Flass said as he approached the men, holding his badge up. "Let me see what we got here." One of the men looked nervous, wondering if he aught to run, or pull out the knife in his pocket. Flass passed him by, examining the crate and pulled out a shabby plush rabbit toy.

"Just rabbits, officer," one of the men stuttered.

"Just rabbits?" Flass laughed as he ripped it open from its seem revealing a tiny bag filled with drugs. Everyone froze. They could overpower this cop, but was it worth it? Someone would come looking for him surely, and assault on an officer was a worse charge than moving drugs.

"Hahaha," one of the men laughed. "Good one, Flass. Had em going." Flass laughed back and threw the rabbit back into the container.

"Wait, you're-" one of the men who had been nervous was now entirely confused.

"I'm your enforcer tonight," Flass chuckled as he put his badge back into his jacket.

"Haven't seen you at one of these in a while," the man who laughed remarked.

"Haven't been able to," Flass grumbled. "Got saddled with lousy partner for a few months, but we've recently opted to go our separate ways. Working alone for now. Which means I have much more time for these extracurricular jobs."

"Good to have to back, man. Everyone this is Detective Flass. Good man. He'll treat you right as long as you treat him right. Right, Flass?"

"Right." The nervous man shrugged, a bit disgruntled at the fun, which had been had at his expense. Picking up his box, he carried it back to the truck, loaded it, and then headed back to the crate to grab another. Suddenly he felt his feet he yanked out from under his and being pulled into the hair. His head swung down, hitting the cement as his body ascended up into the darkness of the rigging above. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the dark shape of some horrifying creature, hunched over and watching him.

"Hey, where'd Vick go?" One of the men said. "Heard a noise, and now he's gone?"

"The nervous guy?" Flass asked. "Probably tryin to play a joke on us after we got him. Not gonna be too funny though. You don't mess with a green beret."

"I'll go look," another man said. "Yo, Vick? Vick, you there?" Suddenly two of the lights above them exploded, going dark.

"What the!?" One of the jumpier thugs exclaimed. "Vick, this aint funny man."

"What's this?" Flass walked directly underneath one of the lights and picked up a little jagged piece of metal, cut out in the shape of a bat. "This thing hit the light or something?"

"One over here too," someone called from under the other light that had gone out. "Musta come from up-" The man looked up, squinting to see better in the dark. There, above him, hanging upside-down was the massive shape of an enormous bat, hanging from the rigging above and staring at them. The man could barely let out a scream before the enormous bat dropped down from above, pouncing on him and knocking him to the floor.

"Whoa!" Flass shouted, pulling his gun in the time it had taken for the bat to grab his comrade's head and slam it down onto the pavement, knocking him unconscious. The bat suddenly lunged toward him, and he fired, but the bullet seemed to just pass through the shadow's enormous wings like it was nothing. Flass stumbled back in shock as several of the other men ran forward. The bat rose up, standing straight like a man, and then lashed its hands out, and from them flew more of the tiny jagged metal projectiles his hit most of the incoming attack.

"Think it's time to bail!" Flass's friend shouted as he took off into the maze of cargo crates ahead. Flass scrambled to find his gun and quickly followed, only glancing over his shoulder to see the shadow leap down and take on those who had stayed behind. It moved so fast, seemingly knocking people left and right with every movement it made. What was it? There was no time to stop and decide. Flass looked forward again and did not look back.

The bat used its entire body like a weapon, attacking from all ends. No matter how anybody approached the beast, it would lash out and either knock them down, or cut them. It moved through them, as if every attack it made was slingshoting it to the next victim. Skin split and bones cracked as the brawl continued, but it was over in a matter of seconds. Every man scattered like rubble across the pavement, bleeding, unconscious, or moaning in pain as they clutched whichever area the monster's blow had hit. It looked down at them, silently, and glided past them into the maze of crates ahead.

"Wait up!" Flass shouted. His friend frantically moved between the crates like a snake in the grass, whipping his way passed each obstacle.

"No way," the man shouted, but as soon as the words had escaped his mouth, Flass watched as a massive black shape shot by, grabbing his friend and dragging him away. He stopped running, now completely alone. Sweat ran down his brow as he raised his gun up close to him, ready to use it at a moment's notice. The sound of his panting against the silent night was almost deafening.

Suddenly there was a scrape across one of the crates to the left. Flass spun in that direction; his weapon outstretched, but he saw nothing. Silence again. And then suddenly another sound as he saw a shadow move out of the corner of his right eye. He span back around, this time firing three rounds. But when his hand had stopped shaking from the shot, there was nothing there. Slowly he rubbed the sweat from his eyes and started inching his way backwards. A sound rang out again from the direction he was staring and he felt panic seize his entire body.

"Where are you!?" he bellowed, spit flying from his lips as he tried his very best to cover his fear by sounding intimidating. And then he felt it. The warm air of a breath ran along the back of his neck as he felt himself back into something behind him. But before he could even register what he had backed into he heard the creature whisper in a deep, quiet, raspy voice, "Here." Flass screamed, turning around to shoot but it was too late. The bat was behind him, hanging upside-down. Its wings burst open and wrapped there way around Flass who felt his gun get wrenched free of his hand as he became engulfed in darkness. And then he felt his legs fall out from under him, and his stomach lurch up into his throat. Before he could tell what was happening at all, he was dangling from the rigging up above.

"Whoa!" she shouted, looking down and seeing his feet hanging helplessly beneath him, and the twenty foot drop below. However, his fear was nothing compared to when he looked up and saw the face of the monster staring at him. It was the bat-man. The bat-man was standing on the rigging, holding Flass over the edge by the lapels of his jacket.

"Don't kill me! Don't kill me! Don't kill me!" Flass pleaded. The bat-man's expression was frozen in a scowl as he shook Flass and pulled him in close so that they could look each other directly in the eyes. Flass tried to divert his gaze by turning his head, but the bat continued staring.

"I'm not going to kill you," it growled. "I want you to do me a favor."

"What, what? Anything!"

"I want you to tell all your friends about me. Tell them to watch out."

"What are you!?" Flass exclaimed, unsure of if he was in the grips of a monster or a psychopath in a costume. The bat-man shook him one more time and pulled him in extremely close.

"I'm Batman," he roared back, and then without hesitation, Batman flung Flass away from his body. The detective screamed as gravity caught ahold of him and felt himself go into a free fall. But his scream was cut short as his body jerked, and his head snapped out. The fall had suddenly ended, and Flass realized that he was attached so some sort of harness and was now hanging from up above. His neck ached from the whiplash of the line going taught, but he craned it as best he could to look up at his attacker. But Batman was gone. He had moved on.

The next day, Flass showed up to the GCPD building with a neck brace on. Though most of the officers were laughing at him, there was an overall nervous feeling throughout the department at the growing number of attacks from Batman.

"It's not _the_ bat-man," Flass protested. "He's Batman. It's his name!"

"What, he a guy in a costume?" Merkel asked.

"No, it's a girl in a costume," Officer O'hara laughed.

"He's just a lunatic vigilante," Detective Sarah Essen retorted. "And with the number of people he's hospitalized I'd like to organize a massive task force to go out and get him." Gordon liked Detective Essen. She kept to herself mostly. Very hard exterior to her personality. The way her blond hair was always so perfectly done, and her clothes so neatly pressed, she was one of those women who had spent much of her life trying overcompensate for the fact that she was a woman. It was a sexist world, and she wanted everyone to know she had the drive to prove the sexists wrong. She didn't fear her femininity. Gordon liked that. Barbara had always seemed to struggle a bit with those sorts of things, and Gordon rarely knew how to respond. But Sarah wasn't like that. She was strong. She was smart. She was capable. She wasn't as tender as Barbara, which was a drawback, but she was better than most of the other cops on the force. And best of all, she wasn't crooked.

"If we can stop from being hysterical for a moment," Gordon said, sipping his coffee and looking at pictures which had been plastered all over the office walls of eye witness descriptions of Batman. They were all fairly ridiculous, ranging from pictures of demonic monsters, to men wearing capes, to a picture of a business with a bat's head on his shoulders.

"What do we know?" Merkel asked.

"Well," Gordon started as he adjusted his glasses. "Our Batman has apparently committed somewhere around seventy acts of assault in the past week. Maybe a few more from last week. And during this time, I think it's fairly safe to rule that he _is_ operating as a vigilante, like Essen said. During this time, certain patterns of timing and method have emerged. It is clear that he possesses extraordinary physical skill and-"

"Not he," Flass muttered. "Not he. It."

"You have something to contribute Detective Flass?" Gordon groaned.

"He's not human. I'm just telling you he's not human."

"You mean _it_. Not he," O'hara said snidely. Flass scowled.

"Thank you, Detective Flass," Gordon said, ignoring O'hara's comment. "Anyway, while the vigilante has been careful to remain unpredictable, choosing the neighborhoods for his assaults at random, he consistently operated between the hours of midnight and four in the morning. He's working his way from street level crime to its upper echelons. From junkie mugger to pusher to supplier. And along the way, to any cops that might be helping the whole process along, it seems… Now, Flass. Tell us what you know about Batman. Try not to exaggerated." Flass's scowl only grew, as he glared at the cops surrounding him who all stared at him with humorously amused expressions.

_He looks like he's hating this,_ Gordon thought to himself. _That looks is absolutely priceless. _

"Well, it's like I said in my report, Lieutenant," Flass began. "I received an anonymous top leading me to an East End cocaine delivery. I was in the process of single-handedly apprehending the felons when I heard giant wings flapping. It flew down from the sky, and its wings were about thirty feet across. It bellowed and hissed- I've never heard anything like that. One of the felons I had not yet disarmed produced a 357 magnum and fired, at point blank range, at the creature. But the bullet passed straight through the creature, like it wasn't there. Other members of the gang tried to fight it but something flew from the creature's hands. Little knives or something… I remember noticing it had claws."

"Claws. Right," one of the cops chuckled. Flass glared at her as if he was challenger her.

"It was little dart things," Flass tried explaining.

"Dart things?"

"It was! He paralyzed the felons, but me he singled out!"

"Yeah right, Flass," O'hara laughed.

"Gentlemen, Gentlemen," Gordon said as he raised his hands trying to calm everyone down. "Please, go on Flass."

_I can't seem to stop enjoying Flass going redder and redder. Maybe this Batman isn't so bad._

Just outside of Gotham City, in the countryside which was directly west of Gotham Heights, was the country home escape of Carmine Falcone. It was a mansion, built on a grounds that was very purposefully several miles outside of the city limits. It was a well known retreat for Carmine, who would often use his visits there as an alibi when he had been implicated in anything unpleasant.

It was dark, but the house's warm glow lit up the surrounding field in a way that honestly felt welcoming. One would be hard-pressed to see such a cozy mansion out in the middle of nowhere and assume the owner was a ruthless crime lord.

Cars lined the driveway of the mansion, all housing chauffeurs, half of whom were either passed out from snorting coke while their employers were inside enjoying the dinner party, or were about to.

_The costume, the weapons, _Batman thought to himself. _The hideout. I have it all. It's time to get serious._

Earlier that evening Alfred had bestowed upon Bruce the newest upgrade of the cowl. It was much more solid, fit better, and blended in to the cape far better. This one was even outfitted with the white lenses Bruce had wanted from the beginning. They weren't capable of much other than enhancing the light filtering in for a sort of sub-par night-vision, but it completed the look. He had modified the utility harness into a utility belt of sorts and outfitted it with everything he would need. He had even recently come into the possession of new transportation in the form of an unmarked black vehicle with no make or model, completely equipped with remote control capabilities, compliments of Wayne Tech.

Slowly, keeping to the shadows, Batman crept up to the cars in the driveway and began incapacitating the driver's, one at a time, using a tiny injector to introduce a knockout compound to their bloodstreams.

_Chauffer by chauffer, I make my way toward the mansion. Only a few of them are awake. Only half of them are armed. There's a guard with a machine pistol in the yard. Need to get to the outer wall of the banquet hall, set the charges, and cut the power. _He slunk off toward the house.

Inside, a massive feast was underway. In attendance were multiple of Gotham's most powerful, and most decedent, all eating under the brilliant light of a set of massive crystal chandeliers.

"Commissioner Loeb," one of the waiters said, holding a handset. "You have an urgent phone call from the Police Department."

"Sure, sure, hand it here," Loeb said as he grabbed the set and put it to his ear. "Hello?... Oh Lieutenant Gordon, what a pleasant surprise… Batman? I am eating, Lieutenant… No I have not filled your requests for personnel yet, I find them ridiculous… Yes Lieutenant, I'm well aware of how many crimes the vigilante is committing, but there are two side to everything, aren't there? Yes there are. And the Batman is having a positive effect on public spirit. Or have you declined to notice the drop in street crime over the past few weeks?... Right, well, I am not exactly in the habit of having to explain myself to my Lieutenants! I hope we understand each other, Gordon… Goodbye."

_Lieutenant Gordon,_ Batman thought, listening in from outside the window as he glued some explosive charges to the side of the wall. _I've been hearing his name a lot lately. More often by the day. All the right people seem to hate him. Alright, charges are set._

"Have you seen the Batman Commissioner?" the mayor's wife asked as Loeb handed the phone back to the waiter. "They say he's huge!"

"You shouldn't pry," Carmine Falcone said softly, sipping a martini from the head of the table. Wearing a pristine white suit like always, with his hair perfectly slicked back and his thin pencil mustache similarly groomed to perfection. "Gill has his hands full, these days. We're trusting him to cope with Batman, and with Gordon, on his own."

"And I appreciate that trust," Loeb huffed. "I really do, boys. Good to see you all, by the way. It's been far too long."

"Heck, Gill," a swaggering councilman said as he leaned over the mayor and got in the commissioner's face. "None of us were gonna come close to you until the polls were in on this whole Batman thing. That, and the whole situation with Dent always prosecuting you lately."

"Well I-" Loeb started.

"The councilman is blunt about his concerns," Falcone interrupted. "It's an election year, after all. My organization is likewise concerned, commissioner. Batman is costing us money."

"Two side to everything, friends," Loeb said confidently. "Look at the long term. A few street operators are put out of action, yes. But the people of Gotham City have a hero. They like this Batman guy. He makes em feel safer. And the safer they feel, the fewer questions they ask."

"I don't like stirring things up, Gill," Falcone hissed. "And if it's not Batman, then it's that kid, Harvey Dent. Word is, Dent is pushing Internal Affairs to go after Detective Flass, Gill. Not only would Flass be difficult to replace if that went through, but if he talked-"

"Dent is a problem, you're right about that. He- what the hell?" A window near the head of the table crashed open as a smoke grenade came barreling into the room and bouncing across the table. Falcone immediately lunged to the ground, taking cover, while the rest of the room went up in an absolute panic.

"The lights! What happened to the lights?" the mayor's wife shrieked as the room went entirely dark, filling up with smoke.

"We're all gonna die!" a voice shouted.

"Stay calm," Loeb was gruffly repeating over and over again.

"Where's my guards?" Falcone was shouting, cursing occasionally. Then, amongst the already mounting chaos, the entire wall along the window exploded, filling the room with smoke and debris. People were crying, injured, and screaming. And suddenly, they saw him.

A massive silhouette of black against the nightscape beyond the hole which had been blown in the wall, was the figure of Batman. Entirely enshrouded in darkness except for his two glaring pupil-less white eyes. The room went deafly still as Batman glided into the room and growled out a ghostly warning.

"Ladies. Gentlemen. You have eaten well. You have eaten Gotham's wealth. It's spirit. Your feast is nearly over. From this moment on, _none_ of you are safe." And with that, he threw down a handful of smoke pellets that removed almost all visibility in the room, and slipped back out into the night.

_It's liberating. They looked frightened. For all these years, since I was eight years old, I haven't felt like myself. Nothing made sense when my parent's died. Every day was painful. Still is. But now… it all comes so easy. The way I move. The way I think. My voice! Those growls and whispers are not the voice of Bruce Wayne. Bruce died decades ago. I finally know who I am. I'm Batman._

"No excuses, Gordon," Loeb shouted the next day. "You, Essen, Merkel, O'hara, and whoever else you want! That vigilante goes under – instantly – or it's your job! I want him found, you understand?"

"Yes, sir…" Gordon responded dismissively.

_Just last night he'd acted like he didn't care. Wonder what changed. _


End file.
